A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [471]
“But I like ’em raw, Grandma,” he protested. He widened his dark-blue eyes in wordless pleading.
“You oughtn’t to eat raw things,” I said sternly. “They can make you sick.”
“You do, Grandma.” He poked a finger at my mouth, where a smudge of brownish batter remained. I cleared my throat and wiped the incriminating evidence on a towel.
“You’ll spoil your supper,” I said, but with the acuity of any jungle beast, he sensed the weakening of his prey.
“Promise I won’t. I’ll eat everything!” he said, already reaching for the spoon.
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” I said, relinquishing it with some reluctance. “Just a taste, now—leave some for your daddy and grandda.”
He nodded, wordless, and licked the spoon with a long, slow swipe of the tongue, closing his eyes in ecstasy.
I found another spoon and set about dropping the cookies onto the tin sheets I used for baking. We ended in a dead heat, the sheets full and the bowl quite empty, just as footsteps came down the hallway toward the door. Recognizing Brianna’s tread, I snatched the empty spoon from Jemmy and rubbed a quick towel across his smudgy mouth.
Bree stopped in the doorway, her smile turning to a look of suspicion.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Making molasses cookies,” I said, lifting the sheets in evidence, before sliding them into the brick oven set in the wall of the fireplace. “Jemmy’s been helping me.”
One neat red brow arched upward. She glanced from me to Jemmy, who was wearing a look of sublimely unnatural innocence. I gathered my own expression was no more convincing.
“So I see,” she said dryly. “How much batter did you eat, Jem?”
“Who, me?” Jemmy said, eyes going wide.
“Mmm.” She leaned forward, and picked a speck out of his wavy red hair. “What’s this, then?”
He frowned at it, crossing his eyes slightly in the attempt to focus.
“A real big louse?” he suggested brightly. “Reckon I got it from Rabbie McLeod.”
“Rabbie McLeod?” I said, uneasily aware that Rabbie had been curled up on the kitchen settle a few days ago, his unruly black curls flowing into Jemmy’s bright locks as the boys slept, waiting for their fathers. I recalled thinking at the time how charming the little boys looked, curled up head to head, their faces soft with dreaming.
“Has Rabbie got lice?” Bree demanded, flicking the bit of batter away from her as though it were indeed a loathsome insect.
“Oh, aye, he’s crawlin’,” Jemmy assured her cheerfully. “His Mam says she’s gonna get his daddy’s razor and shave off ever bit of his hair, him and his brothers and his daddy and his uncle Rufe too. She says they got lice hoppin’ all over their bed. She’s tired of bein’ ate up alive.” Quite casually, he lifted a hand to his head and scratched, fingers raking through his hair in a characteristic gesture I had seen all too often before.
Bree and I exchanged a brief look of horror, then she seized Jemmy by the shoulders, dragging him over to the window.
“Come here!”
Sure enough. Exposed to the brilliant light bouncing off the snow, the tender skin behind his ears and on the back of his neck showed the characteristic pinkness caused by scratching for lice, and a quick inspection of his head revealed the worst: tiny nits clinging to the base of the hairs, and a few reddish-brown adult lice, half the size of rice grains, who scrambled madly away into the thickets. Bree caught one and cracked it between her thumbnails, tossing the remains into the fire.
“Eugh!” She rubbed her hands on her skirt, then pulled off the ribbon that tied back her hair, scratching vigorously. “Have I got them?” she asked anxiously, thrusting the crown of her head toward me.
I ruffled quickly through the thick mass of auburn and cinnamon, looking for the telltale whitish nits, then stepped back, bending my own head.
“No, have I?”
The backdoor opened, and Jamie stepped in, looking only mildly surprised to find Brianna picking through my hair like a crazed baboon. Then his head jerked up, sniffing the air.
“Is something burning?”
“I got ’em,