The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [681]
“What about that?” I asked, popping it back in. “Can you do that?”
Jamie looked amused.
“Of course I can.” He stuck out a rolled tongue and wiggled it, demonstrating, then pulled it back. “Everyone can do that, surely? Ian?”
“Oh, aye, of course.” Ian obligingly demonstrated. “Anyone can.”
“I can’t,” said Brianna. Jamie stared at her, taken aback.
“What d’ye mean ye can’t?”
“Bleah.” She stuck out a flat tongue and waggled it from side to side. “I can’t.”
“Of course ye can.” Jamie frowned. “Here, it’s simple, lass—anyone can do it!” He stuck out his own tongue again, rolling and unrolling it like a paternal anteater, anxiously encouraging its offspring toward an appetizing mass of insects. He glanced at Roger, brows lifted.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Roger said ruefully. He stuck out his own tongue, flat. “Bleah.”
“See?” I said triumphantly. “Some people can roll their tongues, and some simply can’t. It can’t be learned. You’re born with it, or you’re not.”
Jamie looked from Bree to Roger and back, frowning, then turned to me.
“Allowing for the moment that ye may be right—why can the lass not do it, if you and I both can? Ye did assure me she’s my daughter, aye?”
“She is most assuredly your daughter,” I said. “As anyone with eyes in their head could tell you.” He glanced at Brianna, taking in her lean height and mass of ruddy hair. She smiled at him, blue eyes creasing into triangles. He smiled back and turned to me, shrugging in good-natured capitulation.
“Well, I shall take your word for it, Sassenach, as an honorable woman. But the tongue, then?” He rolled his own again, in doubtful fashion, still not quite believing that anyone couldn’t do it if they put their mind to it.
“Well, you do know where babies come from,” I began. “The egg and the . . .”
“I do,” he said, with a noticeable edge to his voice. The tips of his ears turned slightly pink.
“I mean, it takes something from the mother and something from the father.” I could feel my own cheeks pinken slightly, but carried on gamely. “Sometimes the father’s influence is more visible than the mother’s; sometimes the other way round—but both . . . er . . . influences are still there. We call them genes—the things babies get from their two parents that affect the child’s appearance and abilities.”
Jamie glanced at Jemmy, who was humming again, engaged in trying to balance one gemstone on top of another, the sunlight glinting off his coppery hair. Looking back, he caught Roger’s eye, and quickly turned his attention to me.
“Aye, so?”
“Well, genes affect more than simply hair or eye-color. Now,” I warmed to my lecture, “each person has two genes for every trait—one from the father, one from the mother. And when the . . er . . gametes are formed in the ovaries and testes—”
“Perhaps ye should tell me all about it later, Sassenach,” Jamie interrupted, with a sidelong glance at Brianna. Evidently he didn’t think the word “testes” suitable for his daughter’s ears; his own were blazing.
“It’s all right, Da. I know where babies come from,” Bree assured him, grinning.
“Well, then,” I said, taking back command of the conversation. “You have a pair of genes for each trait, one gene from your mother and one gene from your father—but when the time comes to pass these on to your own offspring, you can only pass one of the pair. Because the child will get another gene from his other parent, you see?” I raised an eyebrow at Jamie and Roger, who nodded in unison, as though hypnotized.
“Right. Well, then. Some genes are said to be dominant, and others recessive. If a person has a dominant gene, then that’s the one that will be expressed—will be visible. They may have another gene that’s recessive and so you don’t see it—but it can still be passed to the offspring.”
My collective audience looked wary.
“Surely you learned this in school, Roger?” Bree asked, amused.
“Well, I did,” he muttered, “but I think perhaps I wasna paying proper attention at the time. After all, I wasn’t expecting it