Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [173]
“Dragon’s blood,” he remarked, casually waving at the bubbling liquid. “It only works in a vessel lined with silver. It ruins the cup, of course, but it’s most effective, done under the proper circumstances.”
I made a small, gurgling noise.
“Oh, the patient’s center,” he said, as though recalling something we had talked about many days ago. “Yes, of course. All healing is done essentially by reaching the…what shall we call it? the soul? the essence? say, the center. By reaching the patient’s center, from which they can heal themselves. Surely you have seen it, madonna. The cases so ill or so wounded that plainly they will die—but they don’t. Or those who suffer from something so slight that surely they must recover, with the proper care. But they slip away, despite all you can do for them.”
“Everyone who minds the sick has seen things like that,” I replied cautiously.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And the pride of the physician being what it is, most often he blames himself for those that die, and congratulates himself upon the triumph of his skill for those that live. But La Dame Blanche sees the essence of a man, and turns it to healing—or to death. So an evildoer may well fear to look upon her face.” He picked up the cup, raised it in a toast to me, and drained the bubbling liquid. It left a faint pink stain on his lips.
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “I think. So it wasn’t just Glengarry’s gullibility?”
Raymond shrugged, looking pleased with himself. “The inspiration was your husband’s,” he said modestly. “And a really excellent idea, too. But of course, while your husband has the respect of men for his own natural gifts, he would not be considered an authority on supernatural manifestations.”
“You, of course, would.”
The massive shoulders lifted slightly under the gray velvet robe. There were several small holes in one sleeve, charred around the edges, as though a number of tiny coals had burned their way through. Carelessness while conjuring, I supposed.
“You have been seen in my shop,” he pointed out. “Your background is a mystery. And as your husband noted, my own reputation is somewhat suspect. I do move in…circles, shall we say?”—the lipless mouth broadened in a grin—“where a speculation as to your true identity may be taken with undue seriousness. And you know how people talk,” he added with an air of prim disapproval that made me burst out laughing.
He set down the cup and leaned forward.
“You said that Mademoiselle Hawkins’s health was one concern, madonna. Have you others?”
“I have.” I took a small sip of brandy. “I’d guess that you hear a great deal about what goes on in Paris, don’t you?”
He smiled, black eyes sharp and genial. “Oh, yes, madonna. What is it that you want to know?”
“Have you heard anything about Charles Stuart? Do you know who he is, for that matter?”
That surprised him; the shelf of his forehead lifted briefly. Then he picked up a small glass bottle from the table in front of him, rolling it meditatively between his palms.
“Yes, madonna,” he said. “His father is—or should be—King of Scotland, is he not?”
“Well, that depends on your perspective,” I said, stifling a small belch. “He’s either the King of Scotland in exile, or the Pretender to the throne, but that’s of no great concern to me. What I want to know is…is Charles Stuart doing anything that would make one think he might be planning an armed invasion of Scotland or England?”
He laughed out loud.
“Goodness, madonna! You are a most uncommon woman. Have you any idea how rare such directness is?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “but there isn’t really any help for it. I’m not good at beating round bushes.” I reached out and took the bottle from him. “Have you heard anything?”
He glanced instinctively toward the half-door, but the shopgirl was occupied in mixing perfume for a voluble customer.
“Something small, madonna, only a casual mention in a letter from a friend—but the answer is most definitely yes.