A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [78]
What I wonder is, these dreams I have about then—they seem so vivid and detailed; more than the dreams I have about now. Why do I see things that don’t exist anywhere except inside my brain?
What I wonder about the dreams is—all the new inventions people think up—how many of those things are made by people like me—like us? How many “inventions” are really memories, of the things we once knew? And—how many of us are there?
“IT ISN’T REALLY that hard to have hot, running water. In theory.”
“No? I suppose not.” Roger only half-heard, concentrated as he was on the object taking shape beneath his knife.
“I mean, it would be a big, horrible job to do. But it’s simple in concept. Dig ditches or build sluices—and around here, it would probably be sluices. . . .”
“It would?” Here was the tricky bit. He held his breath, chiseling delicate, tiny slivers of wood away, one shaving at a time.
“No metal,” Bree said patiently. “If you had metal, you could make surface pipes. But I bet there isn’t enough metal in the whole colony of North Carolina to make the piping you’d need to bring water from the creek to the Big House. Let alone a boiler! And if there was, it would cost a fortune.”
“Mmm.” Feeling that this was perhaps not an adequate response, Roger added hastily, “But there’s some metal available. Jamie’s still, for instance.”
His wife snorted.
“Yeah. I asked him where he got it—he said he won it in a high-stakes game of loo against a ship’s captain in Charleston. Think I could travel four hundred miles to bet my silver bracelet against a few hundred feet of rolled copper?”
One more sliver . . . two . . . the smallest scrape with the tip of the knife . . . ah. The tiny circle came free of the matrix. It turned!
“Er . . . sure,” he said, belatedly realizing that she’d asked him a question. “Why not?”
She burst out laughing.
“You haven’t heard one single word I’ve said, have you?”
“Oh, sure I have,” he protested. “‘Ditch,’ ye said. And ‘water.’ I’m sure I remember that one.”
She snorted again, though mildly.
“Well, you’d have to do it, anyway.”
“Do what?” His thumb sought the little wheel, and set it spinning.
“Gamble. No one’s going to let me into a high-stakes card game.”
“Thank God,” he said, in reflex.
“Bless your little Presbyterian heart,” she said tolerantly, shaking her head. “You’re not any kind of a gambler, Roger, are you?”
“Oh, and you are, I suppose.” He said it jokingly, wondering even as he did so why he should feel vaguely reproached by her remark.
She merely smiled at that, wide mouth curving in a way that suggested untold volumes of wicked enterprise. He felt a slight sense of unease at that. She was a gambler, though so far . . . He glanced involuntarily at the large, charred spot in the middle of the table.
“That was an accident,” she said defensively.
“Oh, aye. At least your eyebrows have grown back.”
“Hmpf. I’m nearly there. One more batch—”
“That’s what ye said last time.” He was aware that he was treading on dangerous ground, but seemed unable to stop.
She took a slow, deep breath, gazing at him through slightly narrowed eyes, like one taking the range before firing off some major piece of artillery. Then she seemed to think better of whatever she had been going to say; her features relaxed and she stretched out her hand toward the object he was holding.
“What’s that you’ve been making?”
“Just a wee bawbee for Jem.” He let her take it, feeling the warmth of modest pride. “The wheels all turn.”
“Mine, Daddy?” Jemmy had been wallowing on the floor with Adso the cat, who was tolerant of small children. Hearing his name, though, he abandoned the cat, who promptly escaped through the window, and popped up to see the new toy.
“Oh, look!” Brianna ran the little car over the palm of her hand and lifted it, letting all four tiny wheels spin free. Jem grabbed eagerly for it, pulling at the wheels.
“Careful, careful! You’ll pull them off! Here, let me show you.” Crouching, Roger took the car and rolled it along the