A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [577]
He made a small sound of surprise, but at once rolled away, leaving me damp and trembling.
“What is it, a nighean?” he said softly. He didn’t touch me, but lay close.
“I don’t know,” I said, close to panic. “I keep seeing—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jamie. I see other people; it’s like I’m making love to other m-men.”
“Oh, aye?” He sounded cautious, but not upset. There was a whish of fabric, and he drew the sheet up over me. That helped a little, but not much. My heart was pounding hard in my chest, I felt dizzy and couldn’t seem to take a full breath; my throat kept closing.
Bolus hystericus, I thought, quite calmly. Do stop, Beauchamp. Easier said than done, but I did stop worrying that I was having a heart attack.
“Ah . . .” Jamie’s voice was cautious. “Who? Hodgepile and—”
“No!” My stomach clenched in revulsion at the thought. I swallowed. “No, I—I hadn’t even thought of that.”
He lay quietly beside me, breathing. I felt as though I were literally coming apart.
“Who is it that ye see, Claire?” he whispered. “Can ye tell me?”
“Frank,” I said, fast, before I could change my mind. “And Tom. And—and Malva.” My chest heaved, and I felt that I would never have air enough to breathe again.
“I could—all of a sudden, I could feel them all,” I blurted. “Touching me. Wanting to come in.” I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow, as though I could seal out everything.
Jamie was silent for a long time. Had I hurt him? I was sorry that I’d told him—but I had no defenses anymore. I could not lie, even for the best of reasons; there was simply no place to go, nowhere to hide. I felt beset by whispering ghosts, their loss, their need, their desperate love pulling me apart. Apart from Jamie, apart from myself.
My entire body was clenched and rigid, trying to keep from dissolution, and my face was pushed so deep into the pillow, trying to escape, that I felt I might suffocate, and was obliged to turn my head, gasping for breath.
“Claire.” Jamie’s voice was soft, but I felt his breath on my face and my eyes popped open. His eyes were soft, too, shadowed with sorrow. Very slowly, he lifted a hand and touched my lips.
“Tom,” I blurted. “I feel as though he’s already dead, because of me, and it’s so terrible. I can’t bear it, Jamie, I really can’t!”
“I know.” He moved his hand, hesitated. “Can ye bear it if I touch ye?”
“I don’t know.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Try it and see.”
That made him smile, though I’d spoken with complete seriousness. He put his hand gently on my shoulder and turned me, then gathered me against him, moving slowly, so that I might pull back. I didn’t.
I sank into him, and clung to him as though he was a floating spar, the only thing keeping me from drowning. He was.
He held me close and stroked my hair for a long time.
“Can ye weep for them, mo nighean donn?” he whispered into my hair at last. “Let them come in.”
The mere idea made me go rigid with panic again. “I can’t.”
“Weep for them,” he whispered, and his voice opened me deeper than his cock. “Ye canna hold a ghost at bay.”
“I can’t. I’m afraid,” I said, but I was already shaking with grief, tears wet on my face. “I can’t!”
And yet I did. Gave up the struggle and opened myself, to memory and sorrow. Sobbed as though my heart would break—and let it break, for them, and all I could not save.
“Let them come, and grieve them, Claire,” he whispered. “And when they’ve gone, I’ll take ye home.”
99
OLD MASTER
River Run
IT HAD RAINED HARD THE NIGHT BEFORE, and while the sun had come out bright and hot, the ground was soggy and steam seemed to rise from it, adding to the thickness of the air. Brianna had put her hair up, to keep it off her neck, but wisps escaped constantly, clinging damply to forehead and cheeks, always in her eyes. She wiped a strand away crossly with the back of her hand; her fingers were smeared with the pigment she was grinding—and the humidity wasn’t doing that any good, making the powder clump and cling to the sides of the mortar.
She needed