A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [395]
He narrowed his eyes at me, obviously trying to guess whether I would faint, die, or leap out of bed if he told me.
“Ye’re sure ye feel well enough, Sassenach?” he asked dubiously. “It’s news that wilna spoil with keeping.”
“No, but I have to hear sooner or later, don’t I? And knowing is better than worrying about what I don’t know.”
He nodded, taking the point, and took a deep breath.
“Aye, then. Padraic and his daughter are well on the mend. Evan—he’s lost his youngest, wee Bobby, and Grace is still ill, but Hugh and Caitlin didna fall sick at all.” He swallowed, and went on. “Three of the fisher-folk have died; there’s maybe a dozen still ailing, but most are on the mend.” He knit his brows, considering. “And then there’s Tom Christie. He’s still bad, I hear.”
“Is he? Malva didn’t mention it.” But then, Malva had refused to tell me anything when I’d asked earlier, insisting that I must just rest, and not worry myself.
“What about Allan?”
“No, he’s fine,” Jamie assured me.
“How long has Tom been sick?”
“I dinna ken. The lass can tell ye.”
I nodded—a mistake, as the light-headedness had not left me yet, and I was obliged to shut my eyes and let my head fall back, illuminated patterns flashing behind my lids.
“That’s very odd,” I said, a little breathlessly, hearing Jamie start up in response to my small collapse. “When I close my eyes, often I see stars—but not like stars in the sky. They look just like the stars on the lining of a doll’s suitcase—a portmanteau, I mean—that I had as a child. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I havena got the slightest idea.” There was a rustle as he sat back down on the stool. “Ye’re no still delirious, are ye?” he asked dryly.
“Shouldn’t think so. Was I delirious?” Breathing deeply and carefully, I opened my eyes and gave him my best attempt at a smile.
“Ye were.”
“Do I want to know what I said?”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Probably not, but I may tell ye sometime, anyway.”
I considered closing my eyes and floating off to sleep, rather than contemplate future embarrassments, but rallied. If I was going to live—and I was—I needed to gather up the strands of life that tethered me to the earth, and reattach them.
“Bree’s family, and Marsali’s—they’re all right?” I asked only for form’s sake; both Bree and Marsali had come to hover anxiously over my prostrate form, and while neither one would tell me anything they thought might upset me in my weakened condition, I was reasonably sure that neither one could have kept it secret if the children were seriously ill.
“Aye,” he said slowly, “aye, they’re fine.”
“What?” I said, picking up the hesitation in his voice.
“They’re fine,” he repeated quickly. “None of them has fallen ill at all.”
I gave him a cold look, though careful not to move too much while doing it.
“You may as well tell me,” I said. “I’ll get it out of Mrs. Bug if you don’t.”
As though mention of her name had invoked her, I heard the distinctive thump of Mrs. Bug’s clogs on the stair, approaching. She was moving more slowly than usual, and with a care suggesting that she was laden with something.
This proved to be true; she negotiated sideways through the door, beaming, a loaded tray in one hand, the other wrapped round Henri-Christian, who clung to her, monkeylike.
“I’ve brought ye a wee bit to eat, a leannan,” she said briskly, nudging the barely touched bowl of parritch and plate of cold toast aside to make room for the fresh provisions. “Ye’re no catching, are ye?”
Barely waiting for my shake of the head, she leaned over the bed and gently decanted Henri-Christian into my arms. Undiscriminatingly friendly as always, he butted his head under my chin, nuzzled into my chest, and began mouthing my knuckles, his sharp little baby teeth making small dents in my skin.
“Hallo, what’s happened here?” I frowned, smoothing the soft brown licks of baby hair off his rounded brow, where the yellowing stain of an ugly bruise showed at his hairline.
“The spawn of the de’il tried to kill the poor wean,” Mrs. Bug informed