A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [474]
This Act intends the Publick Good?
No truly; I deny it:
For if, as all allow, ’tis best,
Of Evils Two, to chose the least,
Then my Opinion’s right.
Suppose on Search—it should appear,
Ten Bunters dy’d in every year—
“—By drinking to Excess
Should thousands innocent be led
Into Despair, and lose their Bread,
Such folly to redress?
I’d not be thought t’encourage sin,
Or be an Advocate of Gin;
But humbly do conceive,
This scheme, tho’ drawn with nicest care
Don’t with Almighty Justice square
If Scriptures we believe
When Sodom’s Sin for Vengeance call’d
Ten righteous had its Doom forestall’d
And mov’d e’en God to Pity.
But now Ten bare-fac’d Debauchees
Some private Epicures displease,
And ruin half a City.”
“I’d not be thought t’encourage sin/Or be an Advocate of Gin,” Bree repeated, giggling. “You notice he—or she—doesn’t mention whisky. What’s a Bunter, though? Oops, hold still, baby!”
“A harlot,” Jamie said absently, stropping his razor while still reading over Roger’s shoulder.
“What’s a harlot?” Jemmy asked, his radar naturally picking up the single indelicate word in the conversation. “Is it Richie’s sister?”
Richard Woolam’s sister Charlotte was a most attractive young person; she was also a most devout Quaker. Jamie exchanged glances with Roger, and coughed.
“No, I shouldna think it, lad,” he said. “And for God’s sake, don’t say so, either! Here, are ye ready to be shaved?” Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the shaving brush and lathered Jemmy’s polled head, to the accompaniment of delighted squeals.
“Barber, barber, shave a pig,” Bree said, watching. “How many hairs to make a wig?”
“Lots,” I replied, sweeping up the drifts of fallen hair and throwing them into the fire, hopefully to the destruction of all resident lice. It was rather a pity; Jemmy’s hair was beautiful. Still, it would grow again—and the clipping showed off the lovely shape of his head, roundly pleasing as a cantaloupe.
Jamie hummed tunelessly under his breath, drawing the razor over the skin of his grandson’s head with as much delicacy as if he had been shaving a honeybee.
Jemmy turned his head slightly, and I caught my breath, struck by a fleeting memory—Jamie, his hair clipped short against his skull in Paris, readying himself to meet Jack Randall; readying himself to kill—or be killed. Then Jemmy turned again, squirming on his stool, and the vision vanished—to be replaced by something else.
“Whatever is that?” I leaned forward to look, as Jamie drew his razor down with a flourish and flicked away the last dollop of lather into the fire.
“What?” Bree leaned in beside me, and her eyes widened at sight of the small brown blotch. It was about the size of a farthing, quite round, just above the hairline toward the back of his head, behind the left ear.
“What is it?” she asked, frowning. She touched it gently, but Jemmy scarcely noticed; he was squirming even more, wanting to get down.
“I’m fairly sure it’s all right,” I assured her, after a quick inspection. “It looks like what’s called a nevus—it’s something like a flat mole, usually quite harmless.”
“But where did it come from? He wasn’t born with it, I know!” she protested.
“Babies very seldom have any sort of mole,” I explained, untying my dishcloth from round Jemmy’s neck. “All right, yes, you’re done! Go and be good now—we’ll have supper as soon as I can manage. No,” I added, turning back to Bree, “moles usually start to develop around three years of age—though of course people can get more as they grow older.”
Freed from restraint, Jemmy was rubbing his naked head with both hands, looking pleased and chanting, “Char-lotte the Har-lot, Char-lotte the Har-lot,” quietly under his breath.
“You’re sure it’s all right?” Brianna was still frowning, worried. “It isn’t dangerous?”
“Oh, aye, it’s nothing,” Roger assured her, glancing up from the newspaper. “I’ve had one just like that myself, ever since I was a kid. Just . . . here.” His face changed abruptly as he spoke, and his hand rose, very