The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [581]
“I wish I were deid, if only so folk would stop asking how am I?” he replied grumpily. I took his mood as an indicator of returning health, and took my hand away.
“Have you used the chamberpot yet this morning?”
He raised one eyebrow, glowering.
“Have you?”
“You know, you are perfectly impossible when you don’t feel well,” I remarked, rising to peer into the crudely glazed pot for myself. Nothing.
“Does it not occur to ye, Sassenach, that perhaps it’s yourself that’s impossible when I’m ill? If ye’re not feeding me some disgusting substance made of ground beetles and hoof-shavings, you’re pokin’ my belly and making intimate inquiries into the state of my bowels. Ahh!”
I had in fact pulled down the sheet and prodded him in the lower abdomen. No distention from a swollen bladder; his exclamation appeared to be due entirely to ticklishness. I quickly palpated the liver, but found no hardness—that was a relief.
“Have you a pain in your back?”
“I’ve a marked pain in my backside,” he said, narrowing one eye at me and folding his arms protectively across his middle. “And it’s getting worse by the moment.”
“I am trying to determine whether the snake venom has affected your kidneys,” I explained patiently, deciding to overlook this last remark. “If you can’t piss—”
“I can do that fine,” he assured me, pulling the sheet up to his chest, lest I demand proof. “Now, just leave me to my breakfast, and I’ll—”
“How do you know? You haven’t—”
“I have.” Seeing my skeptical glance at the chamberpot, he glowered under his brows, and muttered something ending in “. . . window.” I swung round to the open window, shutters open and sash raised in spite of the chilly morning air.
“You did what?”
“Well,” he defended himself, “I was standing up, and I just thought I would, that’s all.”
“Why were you standing up?”
“Oh, I thought I would.” He blinked at me, innocent as a day-old child. I left the question, going on to more important matters.
“Was there blood in—”
“What have ye brought for my breakfast?” Ignoring my clinical inquiries, he rolled to one side, and lifted the napkin draped over the tray. He looked at the bowl of bread and milk thus revealed, then turned his head, giving me a look of the most profound betrayal.
Before he could start in on further grievances, I forestalled him by sitting down on the stool beside him and demanding bluntly, “What’s wrong with Tom Christie?”
He blinked, taken by surprise.
“Is something amiss wi’ the man?”
“I wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen him.”
“Well, I havena seen him in more than twenty years myself,” he said, picking up the spoon and prodding the bread and milk suspiciously. “If he’s grown a spare head in that time, it’s news to me.”
“Ho,” I said tolerantly. “You may—and I say may—possibly have fooled Roger, but I know you.”
He looked up at that, and gave me a sidelong smile.
“Oh, aye? D’ye know I dinna care much for bread and milk?”
My heart fluttered at sight of that smile, but I maintained my dignity.
“If you’re thinking of blackmailing me into bringing you a steak, you can forget it,” I advised him. “I can wait to find out about Tom Christie, if I have to.” I stood up, shaking out my skirts as though to leave, and turned toward the door.
“Make it parritch with honey, and I’ll tell ye.”
I turned round to find him grinning at me.
“Done,” I said, and came back to the stool.
He considered for a moment, but I could see that he was only deciding how and where to begin.
“Roger told me about the Masonic lodge at Ardsmuir,” I said, to help out. “Last night.”
Jamie shot me a startled look.
“And where did wee Roger Mac find that out? Did Christie tell him?”
“No, Kenny Lindsay did. But evidently Christie gave Roger a Masonic sign of some sort when he arrived. I thought Catholics weren’t allowed to be Masons, actually.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Aye, well. The Pope wasna in Ardsmuir prison, and I was. Though I havena heard that it’s forbidden, forbye. So wee Roger