A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [484]
“Aye, then,” Jamie said, still reluctant. He very much disliked being involved in this situation, she could tell—but hadn’t yet succeeded in figuring out any way of dealing with it. “Go and tell him. Just the one of ye, though! And should he come, t’other of ye keep well out of his sight, d’ye hear me?”
“Oh, aye, sir,” both of them assured him in unison. Jo—or Kezzie—frowned a little at the bundle, and hesitantly extended his arms. “Should I—”
“No, don’t.” Lizzie was sitting bolt upright, her arms braced to keep her weight off her tender nether parts. Her small fair brow was set in a frown of determination. “Tell him we’re well, aye. But if he wants to see the bairn—he’ll come, and welcome. But if he’ll no set foot upon my threshold . . . well, then, he’s no welcome to see his grandson. Tell him,” she repeated, easing herself back upon her pillows.
“Now give my bairnie to me.” She held out her arms, and clutched the sleeping baby to her, closing her eyes against any possibility of argument or reproach.
78
THE UNIVERSAL
BROTHERHOOD OF MAN
BRIANNA LIFTED THE WAXED CLOTH covering one of the big earthenware basins, and sniffed, taking pleasure in the musty, turned-earth smell. She stirred the pale mess with a stick, lifting it out periodically in order to assess the texture of the pulp that dripped from it.
Not bad. Another day, and it would be dissolved enough to press. She considered whether to add more of the dilute sulfuric acid solution, but decided against it, and instead reached into the bowl at her side, filled with the limp petals of dogwood and redbud flowers gathered for her by Jemmy and Aidan. She scattered a handful of these delicately over the grayish pulp, stirred them in, then covered the bowl again. By tomorrow, they’d be no more than faint outlines, but still visible as shadows in the finished sheets of paper.
“I’d always heard that paper mills stank.” Roger made his way through the bushes toward her. “Perhaps they use something else in the making?”
“Be glad I’m not tanning hides,” she advised him. “Ian says the Indian women use dog turds for that.”
“So do European tanners; they just call the stuff ‘pure.’”
“Pure what?”
“Pure dog turds, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “How’s it going?”
Coming up beside her, he looked with interest at her own small paper factory: a dozen big, fired-clay basins, each filled with scraps of used paper, worn-out scraps of silk and cotton, flax fibers, the soft pith of cattail reeds, and anything else she could get her hands on that might be useful, torn to shreds or ground small in a quern. She’d dug out a small seep, and laid one of her broken water pipes as a catch basin, to provide a convenient water supply; nearby, she’d built a platform of stone and wood, on which stood the framed silk screens in which she pressed the pulp.
There was a dead moth floating in the next bowl, and he reached to take it out, but she waved him away.
“Bugs drown in it all the time, but as long as they’re soft-bodied, it’s okay. Enough sulfuric acid”—she nodded at the bottle, stoppered with a bit of rag—“and they all just become part of the pulp: moths, butterflies, ants, gnats, lacewings . . . wings are the only things that won’t dissolve all the way. Lacewings look sort of pretty embedded in the paper, but not roaches.” She fished one of these out of a bowl and flicked it away into the bushes, then added a little more water from the gourd dipper, stirring.
“I’m not surprised. I stamped on one of them this morning; he flattened out, then popped back up and strolled off, smirking.” He paused a moment; he wanted to ask her something, she could tell, and she made an interrogative hum to encourage him.
“I was only wondering—would ye mind taking Jem up to the Big House after supper? Perhaps