Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [96]
“Blood of my blood,” he whispered, “and bone of my bone. You carry me within ye, Claire, and ye canna leave me now, no matter what happens. You are mine, always, if ye will it or no, if ye want me or nay. Mine, and I wilna let ye go.”
I put a hand over his, pressing it against me.
“No,” I said softly, “nor can you leave me.”
“No,” he said, half-smiling. “For I have kept the last of the vow as well.” He clasped both hands about me, and bowed his head on my shoulder, so I could feel the warm breath of the words upon my ear, whispered to the dark.
“For I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done.”
11
USEFUL OCCUPATIONS
Who is that peculiar little man?” I asked Jamie curiously. The man in question was making his way slowly through the groups of guests gathered in the main salon of the de Rohans’ house. He would pause a moment, scanning the group with a critical eye, then either shrug a bony shoulder and pass on, or suddenly step in close to a man or woman, hold something to their face and issue some sort of command. Whatever he was doing, his actions appeared to be the occasion of considerable hilarity.
Before Jamie could answer, the man, a small, wizened specimen in gray serge, spotted us, and his face lit up. He swooped down on Jamie like a tiny bird of prey suddenly descending upon a large and startled rabbit.
“Sing,” he commanded.
“Eh?” Jamie blinked down at the little figure in astonishment.
“I said ‘Sing,’ ” answered the man, patiently. He prodded Jamie admiringly in the chest. “With a resonating cavity like that, you should have a wonderful volume.”
“Oh, he has volume,” I said, amused. “You can hear him across three squares of the city when he’s roused.”
Jamie shot me a dirty look. The little man was circling him, measuring the breadth of his back and tapping on him like a woodpecker sampling a prime tree.
“I can’t sing,” he protested.
“Nonsense, nonsense. Of course you can. A nice, deep baritone, too,” the little man murmured approvingly. “Excellent. Just what we need. Here, a bit of help for you. Try to match this tone.”
Deftly whipping a small tuning fork from his pocket, he struck it smartly against a pillar and held it next to Jamie’s left ear.
Jamie rolled his eyes heavenward, but shrugged and obligingly sang a note. The little man jerked back as though he’d been shot.
“No,” he said disbelievingly.
“I’m afraid so,” I said sympathetically. “He’s right, you know. He really can’t sing.”
The little man squinted accusingly at Jamie, then struck his fork once more and held it out invitingly.
“Once more,” he coaxed. “Just listen to it, and let the same sound come out.”
Patient as ever, Jamie listened carefully to the “A” of the fork, and sang again, producing a sound wedged somewhere in the crack between E-flat and D-sharp.
“Not possible,” said the little man, looking thoroughly disillusioned. “No one could be that dissonant even on purpose.”
“I can,” said Jamie cheerfully, and bowed politely to the little man. We had by now begun to collect a small crowd of interested onlookers. Louise de Rohan was a great hostess, and her salons attracted the cream of Parisian society.
“Yes, he can,” I assured our visitor. “He’s tone-deaf, you see.”
“Yes, I do see,” the little man said, looking thoroughly depressed. Then he began to eye me speculatively.
“Not me!” I said, laughing.
“You surely aren’t tone-deaf as well, Madame?” Eyes glittering like a snake slithering toward a paralyzed bird, the little man began to move toward me, tuning fork twitching like the flicking tongue of a viper.
“Wait a minute,” I said, holding out a repressive hand. “Just who are you?”
“This is Herr Johannes Gerstmann, Sassenach.” Looking amused, Jamie bowed again to the little man. “The King’s singing-master. May I present you to my wife, Lady Broch Tuarach, Herr Gerstmann?” Trust Jamie to know every last member of the Court, no matter how insignificant.
Johannes Gerstmann.