A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [625]
She smoked in silence for some time, and I busied myself in putting things away, not wanting to leave her lest she fall asleep and set the bed on fire—she was clearly exhausted, and relaxing further by the moment.
The pungent, heady smell of the smoke brought back instant, though fragmentary memories. Several of the younger medical students had smoked it on weekends, and would come to the hospital with the scent of it in their clothes. Some of the people brought into the emergency room had reeked of it. Now and then, I’d smelled the faintest hint of it on Brianna—but never inquired.
I hadn’t ever tried it, myself, but now found the smell of the fragrant smoke rather soothing. Rather too soothing, and I went and sat down by the window, open a crack to admit fresh air.
It had been raining off and on all day, and the air was sharp with ozone and tree resins, welcomely cold against my face.
“Ye know, don’t you?” Jocasta’s voice came softly from behind me. I looked round; she hadn’t moved, but lay like a tomb figure on the bed, straight as a die. The poultice bandage over her eyes made her look like the image of Justice—ironic, that, I thought.
“I know,” I said, matching her own calm tone. “Not very fair to Duncan, was it?”
“No.” The word drifted out with the smoke, almost soundless. She lifted the cigarette lazily and drew air through it, making the end glow red. I kept a narrow eye, but she seemed to have a feel for the ash, tapping it now and then into the saucer base of the candlestick.
“He knows, too,” she said, almost casually. “About Phaedre. I told him, finally, to stop him searching for her. I am sure he knows about Ulysses, too—but he doesna speak of it.”
She reached out, unerring, and tapped the ash neatly from the joint.
“I told him I wouldna blame him if he left me, ken.” Her voice was very soft, nearly without emotion. “He wept, but then he stopped, and said to me that he had said, ‘For better or for worse’—and so had I, had I not? I said I had, and he said, ‘Well, then.’ And here we are.” She shrugged a little, settling herself more comfortably, and fell silent, smoking.
I turned my face again to the window and leaned my forehead against the frame. Below, I saw a sudden spill of light as the door opened, and a dark figure came quickly out. The door closed, and I lost sight of him in the darkness for an instant; then my eyes adapted and I saw him again, just before he vanished on the path to the barn.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Startled, I turned round to look at her, realizing that she must have heard the closing of the door below.
“Ulysses? Yes, I think so.”
She was still for quite a while, the cigarette burning unregarded in her hand. Just before I thought I must rise and take it from her, she lifted it again to her lips.
“His true name was Joseph,” she said softly, releasing the smoke. Wisps of it swirled slowly in a cloud around her head. “So appropriate, I always thought—for he was sold into slavery by his own people.”
“Have you ever seen his face?” I asked suddenly. She shook her head, and ground out the last of the cigarette.
“Nay, but I kent him always,” she said very softly. “He smelled of light.”
JAMIE FRASER sat patiently in the darkness of his barn. It was a small one, with stallage for only half a dozen animals, but soundly built. Rain beat solidly on the roof, and wind whined like a ban-sidhe round the corners, but not a drip came through the shingled roof, and the air inside was warm with the heat of somnolent beasts. Even Gideon was a-nod over his manger, half-chewed hay hanging from the corner of his mouth.
It was past midnight now, and he had been waiting for more than two hours, the pistol loaded and primed, resting on his knee.
There it was; above the rain, he heard the soft grunt of someone pushing at the door, and the rumble as it slid open, admitting a breath of cold rain to mingle with the warmer scents of hay and manure.
He sat still, not moving.
He