A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [283]
Did the bugs cause all disease? The penicillin—why did it work on some of the germs, but not all? And how did the bugs get from one person to another?
“Some travel by air—that’s why you must try to avoid people coughing or sneezing on you—and some by water—which is why you mustn’t drink from a stream that someone’s been using as a privy—and some . . . well, by other means.” I didn’t know how much she might know about sex in humans—she lived on a farm, clearly she knew how pigs, chickens, and horses behaved—and I was wary of enlightening her, lest her father hear about it. I rather thought he’d prefer her to be dealing with ether.
Naturally, she pounced on my evasion.
“Other means? What other means are there?” With an internal sigh, I told her.
“They do what?” she said, incredulous. “Men, I mean. Like an animal! Whyever would a woman let a man do that to her?”
“Well, they are animals, you know,” I said, suppressing an urge to laugh. “So are women. As to why one would let them . . .” I rubbed my nose, looking for a tasteful way of putting it. She was moving rapidly ahead of me, though, putting two and two together.
“For money,” she said, looking thunderstruck. “That’s what a whore does! She lets them do such things to her for money.”
“Well, yes—but women who aren’t whores—”
“The bairns, aye, ye said.” She nodded, but was plainly thinking of other things; her small, smooth forehead was wrinkled in concentration.
“How much money do they get?” she asked. “I should want a lot, I think, to let a man—”
“I don’t know,” I said, somewhat taken aback. “Different amounts, I expect. Depending.”
“Depending . . . oh, if he was maybe ugly, ye mean, ye could make him pay more? Or if she were ugly . . .” She gave me a quick, interested look. “Bobby Higgins told me of a whore he kent in London, that her looks was spoilt by vitriol.” She looked up at the cupboard where I kept the sulfuric acid under lock and key, and shivered, her delicate shoulders quivering with revulsion at the thought.
“Yes, he told me about her, too. Vitriol is what we call a caustic—a liquid that burns. That’s why—”
But her mind had already returned to the subject of fascination.
“To think of Manfred McGillivray doing such a thing!” She turned round gray eyes on me. “Well, and Bobby. He must have been, mustn’t he?”
“I do believe soldiers are inclined—”
“But the Bible,” she said, squinting thoughtfully. “It says ye mustna be whoring after idols. Does that mean men went about sticking their pricks into—did the idols look like women, d’ye think?”
“I’m sure that’s not what it means, no,” I said hastily. “More a metaphor, you know. Er . . . lusting after something, I think it means, not, er . . .”
“Lust,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s to want something sinful bad, is it not?”
“Yes, rather.” Heat was wavering over my skin, dancing in tiny veils. I needed cool air, quickly, or I’d be flushed as a tomato and drenched with sweat. I rose to go out, but felt I really mustn’t leave her with the impression that sex had to do only with money or babies—even though it well might, for some women.
“There is another reason for intercourse, you know,” I said, speaking over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “When you love someone, you want to give them pleasure. And they want to do the same for you.”
“Pleasure?” Her voice rose behind me, incredulous. “Ye mean some women like it?”
47
BEES AND SWITCHES
I WAS BY NO MEANS SPYING. One of my hives had swarmed, and I was looking for the fugitive bees.
New swarms usually didn’t travel far, and stopped frequently, often resting for hours in a tree fork or open log, where they formed a ball of humming conference. If they could be located before making up their collective mind about where to settle, they could often be persuaded into a temptingly empty basket hive, and thus hauled back into captivity.
The trouble with bees is that they don’t leave footprints. Now