A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [598]
“Oh, I have it safe, Uncle,” Ian assured him, patting the small leather pouch at his belt.
“What in the name of G—” Roger stopped abruptly, then resumed. “What d’ye mean to do with it?”
“Keep it with me until we find my cousin,” Ian said, seeming surprised that this was not obvious. “It will help.”
“It will?”
Ian nodded, serious.
“When ye set about a difficult quest—if ye’re Kahnyen’kehaka, I mean—ye generally go aside for a time, to fast and pray for guidance. We havena time to be doing that now, of course. But often, while ye’re doing that, ye choose a talisman—or to be right about it, it chooses you—” He sounded completely matter-of-fact about this procedure, Roger noted.
“And ye carry it with ye through the quest, to keep the attention of the spirits upon your desire and ensure your success.”
“I see.” Jamie rubbed the bridge of his nose. He appeared—like Roger—to be wondering what the Mohawk spirits might make of Neil Forbes’s ear. It would, probably, ensure their attention, at least. “The ear . . . did ye pack it in salt, I hope?”
Ian shook his head.
“Nay, I smoked it over the kitchen fire at the inn last night. Dinna fash yourself, Uncle Jamie; it will keep.”
Roger found a perverse sort of comfort in this conversation. Between the prayers of the Presbyterian clergy and the support of the Mohawk spirits, perhaps they had a chance—but it was the presence of his two kinsmen, stalwart and determined on either side of him, that kept him in hope. They would not give up until Brianna was found, no matter what it took.
He swallowed the lump in his throat for the thousandth time since hearing the news, thinking of Jemmy. The little boy was safe at River Run—but how could he tell Jem that his mother was gone? Well . . . he wouldn’t, that was all. They’d find her.
In this mood of resolution, he led the way through the door of the Brewster, only to be hailed again.
“Roger!”
This time, it was Claire’s voice, sharp with excitement. He turned at once, to see her rising from a bench in the taproom. Seated across the table from her were a plump young woman and a slightly built young man with a cap of tightly curled black hair. Manfred McGillivray.
“I SAW YE BEFORE, sir, two days ago.” Manfred bobbed his head apologetically toward Jamie. “I . . . er . . . well, I hid myself, sir, and I do regret it. But of course, I’d no way of knowing, until Eppie came back from Roanoke and showed me the ring. . . .”
The ring lay on the table, its cabochon ruby casting a tiny, calm pool of ruddy light on the boards. Roger picked it up and turned it in his fingers. He barely heard the explanations—that Manfred lived with the whore, who made periodic expeditions to the ports near Edenton, and upon seeing the ring had overcome his sense of shame and come to find Jamie—too much overcome by this small, hard, tangible evidence of Brianna.
Roger closed his fingers over it, finding the warmth of it a comfort, and came to himself in time to hear Hepzibah say earnestly, “Ocracoke, sir. At the dark of the moon.” She coughed modestly, ducking her head. “The lady did say, sir, as you might feel some gratitude for the news of her whereabouts. . . .”
“Ye’ll be paid, and paid well,” Jamie assured her, though he was clearly giving her no more than a fraction of his attention. “The dark of the moon,” he said, turning to Ian. “Ten days?”
Ian nodded, his face shining with excitement.
“Aye, about that. She didna ken whereabouts on Ocracoke Island this was?” he asked the whore.
Eppie shook her head.
“Nay, sir. I ken Stephen’s got a house there, a large one, hidden in the trees, but that’s all.”
“We’ll find it.” Roger’s own voice surprised him; he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.
Manfred had been looking uneasy throughout. He leaned forward, putting his hand on top of Eppie’s.
“Sir—when ye do find it . . . ye’ll not say to anybody, will ye, about Eppie telling ye? Mr. Bonnet’s a dangerous man, and I wouldna have her imperiled from him.” He glanced at the young woman, who blushed