A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [610]
You could go both ways; they knew that for a fact. The obvious implication—which neither Roger nor her mother had mentioned, so perhaps they hadn’t seen it—was that one could go into the future from a starting point, rather than only into the past and back.
So perhaps if someone traveled to the past and died there, as Geillis Duncan and Otter-Tooth had both demonstrably done . . . perhaps that must be balanced by someone traveling to the future and dying there?
She closed her eyes, unable—or unwilling—to follow that train of thought any further. Far in the distance, she heard the sound of the surf, pounding on the sand, and thought of the slave ship. Then she realized that the smell of it was here, and rising suddenly, went to the window. She could just see the far end of the path that led to the house; as she watched, a big man in a dark-blue coat and hat stumped rapidly out of the trees, followed by two others, shabbily dressed. Sailors, she thought, seeing the roll of their gait.
This must be Captain Jackson, then, come to conduct his business with Bonnet.
“Oh, Josh,” she said out loud, and had to sit down on the bed, a wave of faintness washing over her.
Who had it been? One of the Saint Theresas—Theresa of Avila? Who’d said in exasperation to God, “Well, if this is how You treat Your friends, no wonder You have so few of them!”
SHE HAD FALLEN asleep hinking of Roger. She waked in the morning thinking of the baby.
For once, the nausea and the odd sense of dislocation were absent. All she felt was a deep peace, and a sense of . . . curiosity?
Are you there? she thought, hands across her womb. Nothing so definite as an answer; but knowledge was there, as sure as the beating of her own heart.
Good, she thought, and fell asleep again.
Noises from below awakened her sometime later. She sat up suddenly, hearing loud voices raised, then swayed, feeling faint, and lay down again. The nausea had returned, but if she closed her eyes and kept very still, it lay dormant, like a sleeping snake.
The voices continued, rising and falling, with the occasional loud thud for punctuation, as though a fist had struck a wall or table. After a few minutes, though, the voices ceased, and she heard nothing further until light footsteps came to her door. The lock rattled, and Phaedre came in, with a tray of food.
She sat up, trying not to breathe; the smell of anything fried . . .
“What’s going on down there?” she asked.
Phaedre pulled a face.
“That Emmanuel, he’s not best pleased with they Fulani women. Ibo, they think twins are bad, bad luck—any woman bear twins, she take them out in the forest, leave them there to die. Emmanuel want to send the Fulani off with Captain Jackson first thing, get them out the house, but Mr. Bonnet, he say he waiting on the gentlemen from the Indies, get a lots better price.”
“Gentlemen from the Indies—what gentlemen?”
Phaedre lifted her shoulders.
“I ain’t knowing. Gentlemen he think he sell things to. Sugar planters, I reckon. You eat that; I be back later.”
Phaedre turned to go, but Brianna suddenly called after her.
“Wait! You didn’t tell me yesterday—who took you from River Run?”
The girl turned back, looking reluctant.
“Mr. Ulysses.”
“Ulysses?” Brianna said, disbelieving. Phaedre heard the doubt in her voice, and gave her a flat, angry look.
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“No, no,” Brianna hastily assured her. “I do believe you. Only—why?”
Phaedre breathed in deeply through her nose.
“Because I am one damn stupid nigger,” she said bitterly. “My mama told me, she say never, ever cross Ulysses. But did I listen?”
“Cross him,” Brianna said warily. “How did you cross him?” She gestured to the bed, inviting Phaedre to sit down. The girl hesitated for a moment, but then did, smoothing a hand over the white cloth tied round her head, over and over, while she searched for words.
“Mr. Duncan,” she said at last, and her face softened a little. “He a nice,