A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [428]
He nodded, and picked up a chestnut to help her.
“That’s good, to dream of live birds, especially if they sing. Dead birds are a bad thing, in a dream.”
“They were definitely alive, and singing,” she assured him, with a glance up at the branch above him, where some bird with a bright yellow breast and black wings had lighted, viewing their breakfast preparations with interest.
“Did any of them talk to ye?”
She stared at him, but he was clearly serious. And after all, she thought, why wouldn’t a bird talk to you, in a dream?
She shook her head, though.
“No. They were—oh.” She laughed, unexpectedly recalling. “They were building a nest out of toilet paper. I dream about toilet paper all the time. That’s a thin, soft kind of paper that you use to wipe your, er, behind with,” she explained, seeing his incomprehension.
“Ye wipe your arse with paper?” He stared at her, jaw dropped in horror. “Jesus God, Brianna!”
“Well.” She rubbed a hand under her nose, trying not to laugh at his expression. He might well be horrified; there were no paper mills in the Colonies, and aside from tiny amounts of handmade paper such as she made herself, every sheet had to be imported from England. Paper was hoarded and treasured; her father, who wrote frequently to his sister in Scotland, would write a letter in the normal fashion—but then would turn the paper sideways, and write additional lines perpendicularly, to save space. Little wonder that Ian was shocked!
“It’s very cheap then,” she assured him. “Really.”
“Not as cheap as a cob o’ maize, I’ll warrant,” he said, narrow-eyed with suspicion.
“Believe it or not, most people then won’t have cornfields to hand,” she said, still amused. “And I tell you what, Ian—toilet paper is much nicer than a dry corncob.”
“‘Nicer,’” he muttered, obviously still shaken to the core. “Nicer. Jesus, Mary, and Bride!”
“You were asking me about dreams,” she reminded him. “Did you dream last night?”
“Oh. Ah . . . no.” He turned his attention from the scandalous notion of toilet paper with some difficulty. “Or at least if I did, I dinna recall it.”
It came to her suddenly, looking at his hollowed face, that one reason for his sleeplessness might be that he was afraid of what dreams might come to him.
In fact, he seemed afraid now that she might press him on the subject. Not meeting her eye, he picked up the empty beer jug and clicked his tongue for Rollo, who followed him, blue-gray feathers sticking to his jaws.
She had cut the last of the chestnut skins and buried the gleaming marrons in the ashes to bake with the yams, by the time he came back.
“Just in time,” she called, seeing him. “The yams are ready.”
“Just in time, forbye,” he answered, smiling. “See what I’ve got?”
What he had was a chunk of honeycomb, thieved from a bee tree and still chilled enough that the honey ran slow and thick, drizzled over the hot yams in glorious blobs of gold sweetness. Garnished with roasted, peeled, sweet chestnuts and washed down with cold creek water, she thought it was possibly the best breakfast she’d eaten since leaving her own time.
She said as much, and Ian lifted one feathery brow in derision.
“Oh, aye? And what would ye eat then that’s better?”
“Oooh . . . chocolate donuts, maybe. Or hot chocolate, with marshmallows in it. I really miss chocolate.” Though it was hard to miss it much at the moment, licking honey off her fingers.
“Och, get on wi’ ye! I’ve had chocolate.” He squinched his eyes and pinched his lips in exaggerated distaste. “Bitter, nasty stuff. Though they did charge a terrible lot of money just for a wee cup of it, in Edinburgh,” he added practically, unsquinching.
She laughed.
“They put sugar in it, where I come from,” she assured him. “It’s sweet.”
“Sugar in your chocolate? That’s the most decadent thing I’ve ever heard of,” he said severely. “Even worse than the arse-wiping paper, aye?” She saw the teasing glint in his eye, though, and merely snorted, nibbling the last shreds of orange yam flesh from the blackened skin.
“Someday I’ll get hold of some chocolate, Ian,” she said,