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January 13 - August 1, 2019
Time is a lot of the things people say that God is.
Hodie mihi cras tibi—sic transit gloria mundi.
Today for me, for you tomorrow—thus passes the glory of the world.
Chapter 10, "Duty Calls": I know this chapter title is about Jamie's decision to join the Crown, but instead I'm going to believe it's a joke about Bobby's hemorrhoids.
There’s so much imagery conflated with the concept of Jamie’s death so far in this book. Probably foreshadowing the loss of his remaining four “lives”? Or the newsclipping/house burning/future death? Or his actual death? But I doubt his actual death because this is book 6 of 8.
eating bread pudding with melted butter and maple syrup
God, I want this bread pudding so badly.
Irish lilt
Nooooooooo
“Le Mot Juste” = “The Right Word”
I opened my mouth to reply tartly that I had been married to Jamie for nearly thirty years—when I realized that the question implied something about the nature of Mr. Christie’s own concept of marriage that I didn’t want to consider too closely.
There’s been a lot of foreshadowing about this man’s character, and this hammers the last nail for me. Christie is going to hurt Claire somehow.
He removed a cake of soap she had added, along with a few more unnecessary fripperies, and carefully hid them under a bucket, lest she be offended.
This is SO Jamie.
Marsali made a louder sound and moved like a striking snake. She swung the ax from the shoulder with all the power of her bulk behind it, and the blade sank deep in the shoulder of the man beside her. She wrenched it free and blood sprayed warm across my face, pattering like rain upon the leaves.
Marsali is one badass, heavily pregnant boss.
What I meant—you don’t act afraid of men. Most of the women from now do. You oughta act more afraid.”
Yes yes yes, thus my surprise it's taken Claire THIS LONG to be in severe danger of men.
Something seemed oddly wrong, though, and I squinted, trying to make it out. Then I realized that his head was on backward.
This is the best bit of action I’ve read since book one. Love this scene!
That resolve, small as it was, made me feel better and steadier at once.
BUT SHE STILL HASN'T ASKED ABOUT MARSALI!!!! Are Marsali and the baby dead, wounded...? For all her concern during her kidnapping, you'd think she would have asked about Marsali by now. Heck, she thought about the well-being of the new time traveler before an actual member of her family! Claiiiiire!!!
Ian’s soft hazel eyes peered intently into my face with no apparent surprise or distress, though. At last he let go, and patted my shoulder gently. “Ye’ll do, Auntie,” he said. “It’s still you, isn’t it?” “Yes,” I said. And with no warning at all, tears welled up and overflowed. I knew exactly what he’d meant, and why he’d said it—and it was true.
IAAAAAAN. I'm crying.
The door stood ajar, as I’d left it. I pushed it open, and the strong pure light of the afternoon shone past me, illuminating Mrs. Bug in the act of pressing a pillow over Lionel Brown’s face with all her strength.
Hahahahahaha, oh no. This is going to be a mess.
Brown’s hand hung limp, fingers slightly cupped, holding shadows.
Ooooh, this is wonderful imagery.
I fart quite regular, and not a touch of the fiery knives about it!”
Bobby is a precious gift. Never change.
“Er …” I said. “Well, I should think it simply stays with your body. It must. I mean—you aren’t dead.” Both Lizzie and Bobby were shaking their heads decidedly. “No, it doesn’t,” Lizzie said. “When ye’re sleepin’, ye’re still there. When ye do that”—she gestured toward the mask, a faint uneasiness on her small features—“ye’re not.” “That’s true, mum,” Bobby assured me. “You’re not.”
This is great to read because the one time I was anesthetized, I awoke and immediately thought that the blip in my consciousness I had experienced must be similar to slipping into death. It is very different from sleep; in sleep, you do keep your consciousness with you. I’ve never read anything that’s voiced these opinions before!
“Limbo’s no real place,” she said. “It’s only a notion thought up by the Pope.”
Hahaha
who was cutting branches from one of the mountain ash trees at the side of the clearing. What for? I wondered.
You know, Claire! C’mon. She’s cutting her own switch.
His innards were very warm, sucking wet around two probing fingers. Soft squish of intestine, small half-firm lumps of matter felt through their walls, the brush of bone against my knuckle—he was so small, there wasn’t much room to feel around. I had my eyes closed, concentrating on touch alone. The cecum had to be right under my fingers, that was the curve of the large intestine I could feel, inert but live, like a sleeping snake. Behind? Below? I probed carefully, opened my eyes, and peered closely into the wound. He wasn’t bleeding badly, but the wound was still awash. Ought I take the time
...more
Very Black Jack-y.
“Do you believe us—Claire and Brianna and me—about the war that’s coming?” Jamie laughed shortly, gaze fixed on the water. “I’ve eyes, man. It doesna take either prophet or witch to see it standing on the road.”
As for the news about Bonnet … “A bad penny always turns up,” had been his cynical opinion, expressed when Bonnet’s body had failed to be discovered after Brianna had shot him.
Honestly a little disappointed Bonnet has reappeared in this book. He's a great villain, but I want him gone in favor of new ones. I don't want this to become a Boris Badenov V. Rocky & Bullwinkle situation.
Then the fabric of the bed gave way under their combined weight, Fergus and Ian tumbled to the ground, and a perfect cascade of goose feathers poured out on top of them, only to be caught at once by the thick, damp air and whirled up into a delirious snowstorm that filled the street and plastered the surprised mob with clumps of sticky down.
This would be great to see on the television show, but I’m concerned about the mob mentality/narrative approval of Forbes getting tarred and feathered, even if it’s only a little tar and a whole lot of feathers.
Jezebel Hatfield Morton was after him in an instant, ruthlessly flattening anyone in her way.
God, I want Jezebel to become a rounded minor character. She’s so interesting!
Forbes looked up, glowering, and said something muffled, heavy face twisting in dislike. On the whole, I thought it was just as well I couldn’t hear him.
Calling it now: Forbes is going to burn Fraser’s Ridge and make the newspaper clipping true.
“Do you threaten me, sir?” She drew herself up tall, and put her hand on a bell that stood on the table near the door. “I have protection, sir, I assure you.
I want a whole book about a bad-ass brothel madame with a bell.
For all her relative youth, Mrs. Sylvie was a hard customer, and no easy sell. While fear of the pox was a constant factor in the life of a whore, talk of spirochetes cut no ice with her, and my proposition that I inject her staff—there were only three girls, it appeared—with penicillin met with a firm refusal.
I really, really want a whole book about her now. Gabaldon is great at creating vivid minor characters.
“He didn’t say anything,” Roger said quite gently, and put a hand on my arm. “He—he just cried.”
Ugh, right in the heart!!!!!!
I remarked sotto voce
Getting exhausted with this phrase. Almost as overused as “genuflect” was in books one and two.
He took the stone from its cloth, turning it over between his fingers, and looked thoughtfully at me, as though making up his mind whether to tell me something. Small hairs began to prickle on the back of my neck. “I dinna ken,” he said at last, shaking his head. “But I’ve seen ye there.” The prickling ran straight down the back of my neck and down both arms. “Seen me where?” “There.” He waved a hand in a vague gesture. “I dreamt of ye there. I dinna ken where it was; I only know it was there—in your proper time.” “How do you know that?” I demanded, my flesh creeping briskly. “What was I
...more
My brain, my body, my soul are all so ready for this. So. Goddamn. Ready.
“And after all,” he added logically, “I dream of the past; why would I not dream of the future?” There was no good answer to a thoroughly Celtic remark of that nature.
<3
She wished she had thought to ask her mother more about the girl Ian called Emily—the Mohawk name was something multisyllabic and unpronounceable.
This is very Brianna. I appreciate Gabaldon’s efforts at distinguishing character traits. Claire or Jamie would NEVER say something like this, whereas Brianna totally fits the bill. *eye rolling at Brianna’s snootiness and gagging at her racism*
I am very, very good with my hands.”
God, this is so gross. No.
I’ll—I’ll tell ye the rest, walking.”
NO! Just finish the story now, Ian! Your story about Emily is boring me (and Brianna) to death.
She wanted to say no, of course not. Or to protest weakly that she was not a priest, how could she say? But neither of those would do; he was not looking for easy reassurance, and a weak-minded abnegation of responsibility would not serve him.
I know Ian is close to Brianna, but why hasn’t Ian taken this up with Roger? Roger is an *actual* priest now!
Young Christie cast a single angry glance back over his shoulder, hand still on his knife—but left.
Young Christie will make the newspaper true?
“I’d really hate to think it might have been Bobby,” Bree said, frowning as she pushed a wooden darning egg into the heel of a sock. “He seems just such a nice boy.”
I will be genuinely crushed if it is Bobby. :'( He and his hemorrhoids won my heart so quickly. Hopefully Brianna's speculation out-rules him as the murderer!
well. I was thinking more of French women’s underwear,” she said weakly. “Um … lacy sorts of things.”
Nice save, Bree!!
But by far the greatest weight of suspicion rested squarely on her parents.
Interesting that the house burning down will probably happen because of Malva's death and NOT Jamie's involvement with the American revolutionaries. Not what I anticipated going into this book.
The rooms above were still filled with light; it was like bursting up from underwater, and I gulped the light as though it were air, dazzled and eyes watering as I rushed to bolt the shutters in the boxroom and Amy McCallum’s room. I didn’t know where Amy and her sons were; I could only be grateful that they weren’t in the house at the moment.
There's only 250-ish pages left in the book. This seems like it could be 1) a false call for the Ridge's burning, or 2) the actual burning. They're locking themselves in!! It's very likely Brown could burn the place down!
The mind of the times being what it was, I was well aware that an obscure sense of blame attached to the victim of any sexual crime—unless the woman died, in which case she became at once a spotless angel.
Sorry to say it hasn’t changed a lot between 1775, 1969, and 2019, Claire.
Thomas Christie came through the crowd; in spite of the darkness and wavering torchlight, I knew at once it was him.
Ooooh, what’s he going to say to the mob?
“I’m a great deal too old for this sort of nonsense.”
Jamie is 54, so yes, he’s had his full of nonsense! (Also, wow! He’s around my parents’ current age!)
“I am the Fraser, of Fraser’s Ridge,”
Lol
I didn’t pause to consider, but reached down into my stays and withdrew the small knife I had taken from the surgeon’s kit. I jabbed it down with all my strength, so that it stuck in the wood of the desk and stood there, quivering before the Governor’s astonished eyes.
Reckless Claire's temper has got the best of her again. That knife would likely have come in handy with time!!
“I have come to confess to the murder of my daughter.”
I mean... it makes sense. But it's disappointing on a character-level.
“I believe in witches,” he said with complete matter-of-fact seriousness. “For I’ve kent them. The girl was one, as was her mother before her.” The icy flutter grew stronger. “The girl,” I said. “You mean your daughter? Malva?” He shook his head a little, and his eyes took on a darker hue. “No daughter of mine,” he said. “Not—not yours? But—her eyes. She had your eyes.” I heard myself say it, and could have bitten my tongue. He only smiled, though, grimly. “And my brother’s.”
