Outlander Series discussion
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Go tell the bees that I'm gone (#9) - Daily lines
Thank you, thank you, thank you for this morsel. Oh how I miss Jamie and Claire....
You're welcome, April! I'm currently fighting the urge to start reading the whole series all over again. I want to wait until the release date for book 9 is set! I wonder if I manage...
Annette wrote: "Just found this pearl on facebook:“Lie down,” I said firmly, and pointed to my lap.
“Nay, I’ll be f—“
“I don’t care whether you’re fine or not,” I said. “I said, lie down.”
“I’ve work to—“
“..."
Thank you, Annette.
I never think to read the dailies, because I've not completed the entire series yet. I will. But not yet.
So running across little tidbits like this one are a true gem.
Herself can really set an intimate scene, aye?
Absolutely. I've also found that the daily lines never contain spoilers. They're very careful about picking them. It just takes you into the world to meet old friends without giving away anything about the story. I love it. Although I must admit that I probably couldn't stand to be touched like that when I have a migraine. Not as if anybody ever tried, because I hole up in my bed with the covers over my head and yap and bite at anyone who comes near. :-)
Annette wrote: "You're welcome, April! I'm currently fighting the urge to start reading the whole series all over again. I want to wait until the release date for book 9 is set! I wonder if I manage..."I can relate! I'm going to try and wait as well for my re-read.
I've re-read the series twice, and I swear both times I've manged to find something I'd overlooked previously. Small details, but wonderful surprises.
April, I read the first book about 8 times before I finally wanted to know how it went on and I've read the following books once. No. I read them all in one go and then read them again before Moby was released. Goodness. And yes, there are always things that you've forgotten or overlooked. I mean - it's practically impossible to remember EVERYTHING that's written in such a tremendously long and elaborate story! It's amazing.
I finished the whole series just a few weeks ago. I want to go back and read them all again.
#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #Noitsnothelastbook #NOitisntfinished #Later #Illtellyouwhenwegetclose #Savannah #PortraitPainting #NoNewIsGoodNews“R oo wrkg n m mth?” Mrs. Brumby said, moving her lips as little as possible, just in case.
“No, you can talk,” Brianna assured her, suppressing a smile. “Don’t move your hands, though.”
“Oh, of course!” The hand that had risen unconsciously to fiddle with her densely sculpted curls dropped like a stone into her lap, but then she giggled. “Must I have Heike feed me my elevenses? I hear her coming.”
Heike weighed about fourteen stone and could be heard coming for some considerable time before she appeared, the wooden heels of her shoes striking the bare floorboards of the hall with a measured tread like the thump of a bass drum.
“I have _got_ to do that floor-cloth,” Bree said, not realizing that she’d spoken aloud until Angelina laughed.
“Oh, do,” she said. “I meant to tell you, Mr. Brumby says he prefers the pineapples, and could you possibly have it ready by Wednesday-week? He wants to have a great dinner for Colonel Campbell and his staff. In gratitude, you know, for his gallant defense of the city.” She hesitated, her little pink tongue darting out to touch her lips. “Do you think…er…I don’t wish to—to be—that is—“
Brianna made a hasty dab, a streak of pale pink catching the shine of light on the roundness of Angelina’s delicate forearm.
“It’s all right,” she said, barely attending. “Don’t move your fingers.”
“No, no!” Angelina said, twitching her fingers guiltily, then trying to remember how they’d been.
“That’s fine, don’t move!”
Angelina froze, and Bree managed the suggestion of shadow between the fingers while Heike clumped in. To her surprise, though, there was no sound of rattling tea-things, nor any hint of the cake she’d smelled baking this morning as she dressed.
“What is it, Heike?” Mrs. Brumby was sitting rigidly erect, and while she’d been given permission to talk, kept her eyes fixed on the vase of flowers Brianna had given her as a focus spot. “Where is our morning tea?”
“_Ist ein Mann_,” Heike informed her mistress portentously, dropping her voice as though to avoid being overheard.
“Someone at the door, you mean?” Angelina risked a curious glance at the studio door before jerking her eyes back into line. “What sort of man?”
Heike pursed her lips and nodded at Brianna.
“_Ein Soldat. Er will sie sehen_.”
“A soldier?” Angelina dropped her pose and looked at Brianna in astonishment. “And he wants to see Mrs. MacKenzie? You’re sure of that, Heike? You don’t think he might want Mr. Brumby?”
Heike was fond of her young mistress and refrained from rolling her eyes, instead merely nodding again at Bree.
“Her,” she said in English. “_Er sagte, ‘die_ Lay-dee Pain-ter.’” She folded her hands under her apron and waited with patience for further instructions.
“Oh.” Angelina was clearly at a loss—and just as clearly had lost all sense of her pose.
“Shall I go and talk to him?” Bree inquired. She swished her brush in the turps and wrapped it in a bit of damp rag.
“Oh, no—bring him here, will you, Heike?” Angelina plainly wanted to know what this visitation was about. And, Bree thought with an internal smile, seeing Angelina poke hastily at her hair, be seen in the thrilling position of being painted.
The soldier in question proved to be a very young man in the uniform of the Continental Army. Angelina gasped at sight of him and dropped the glove she was holding in her left hand.
“Who are you, sir?” she demanded, sitting up as straight as she possibly could. “And how come you here, may I ask?”
“Your servant, ma’am,” the young man replied, “and yours, ma’am,” turning to Brianna. He withdrew a sealed note from the bosom of his coat and bowed to her. “If I may take the liberty of inquiring—are you Mrs. Roger MacKenzie?”
She felt as though she’d been dropped abruptly down a glacial abyss, freezing cold and ice-blind. Confused memories of yellow telegrams seen in war movies, the looming threat of the siege, and _where was he_?
More daily lines!!! Bree and William together?!?!?!?Lieutenant Hanson cast a quick look over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The general was shot up two days ago, runnin’ his cavalry in betwixt two batteries, but--”
“He led a cavalry charge…into cannon?” Evidently Lieutenant Hanson hadn’t lowered his voice quite enough, for the question came from William, riding close behind. He sounded incredulous and slightly amused, and Bree turned round and glared at him.
He ignored the glare, but urged his horse up toward Hanson’s mule. The lieutenant was carrying his flag of truce, and at this moved it instinctively, pointing it at William in the manner of a jousting lance.
“I meant no insult to the general,” William said mildly, raising one hand in negligent defense. “It sounds a most dashing and courageous maneuver.”
“It was,” Hanson replied shortly. He raised his flag a little and turned his back on William, leaving brother and sister riding side by side, John Cinnamon bringing up the rear. Bree gave William a narrow-eyed look that strongly suggested he should keep his mouth shut. He eyed her for a moment, then straightened up and assumed an expression of angelic rectitude, lips primly compressed.
She wanted to laugh almost as much as she wanted to poke him with something sharp, but lacking her own flag of truce, settled for an audible snort.
“À vos souhaits,” Mr. Cinnamon said politely behind her. William snorted.
“Merci," she said, "and Bless you.". Nothing more was said until they arrived a few minutes later at the edge of the city. A small cluster of English redcoats was guarding the end of the street, sheltering from artillery fire behind a barricade of wagons and mattresses turned on their sides. A camp kettle was boiling over a tiny fire, and the scent of coffee and toasted bread made her mouth water.
She must have been gazing hungrily at a few men eating by the fire, for William nudged his horse nearer and murmured, “I’ll see you’re fed as soon as we reach camp.”
She glanced at him and nodded thanks. There was nothing amused or off-hand in his manner now. He sat relaxed in his saddle, reins loose in his hand as Lieutenant Hanson talked to the redcoat in command, but his eyes never left the British soldiers.
I missed this one. Thank you for posting it. I haven't read any Outlander lately and am waiting patiently for "Bees"... so the #dailylines fill in spots for me.
Here's another little titbit I just found...I broke off a small chunk of bread, carefully spread a dab of the pale honey onto it, and handed it to Jamie.
“Taste that. Not like that!” I said, seeing him about to engulf the bite. He froze, the bread half-way to his mouth.
“How am I meant to taste it, if I’m not to put it in my mouth?” He asked warily. “Have ye thought of some novel method of ingestion?” He lifted the morsel to his nose and sniffed it cautiously.
"Slowly. You’re meant to savor it,” I added reprovingly. “It’s special.”
“Oh.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Well, it’s got a fine, light nose.” He raised his eyebrows, eyes still closed. “And a nice bouquet, to be sure…lily ‘o the valley, burnt sugar, something a wee bit bitter, maybe…” He frowned concentrating, then opened his eyes and looked at me. “Bee shit?”
I made a grab for the bread, but he snatched it away, stuffed it in his mouth, closed his eyes again and assumed an expression of rapture as he chewed.
“See if I ever give _you_ any more sourwood honey!” I said.
He swallowed, and licked his lips thoughtfully.
“Sourwood. Is that no what ye gave Bobby Higgins last week to make him shit?”
“That’s the leaves.” I waved at a tall jar on the middle shelf. “Sarah Ferguson says that sourwood honey is monstrously good and monstrously rare, and that the folk in Salem and Cross Creek will give you a small ham for a jar of it.”
“Will they, so?” He eyed the honey-pot with more respect. “And it’s from your own wee stingards, is it?”
“Yes, but the sourwood trees only bloom for about six weeks, and I’ve only the one hive. That’s why it’s so—“
A thunder of feet coming onto the porch and the bang of the front door drowned me out, and the air was filled with excited boys’ voices shouting, “Grand-da!” “_Grand-pere_!” “ _Maighister_!”
Jamie stuck his head out into the corridor.
“What?” he said, and the running feet stumbled to a ragged halt, among exclamations and pantings, in the midst of which I picked out one word: ‘Redcoats!’
#DailyLines #BookNine #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #crampedquarters #noitsnotfinished #notforalongtime #dontevenask #itsfineThe small wooden structure to which the lieutenant escorted them might originally have been a chicken coop, Brianna thought, ducking beneath the flimsy lintel. Someone had been living in it, though; there were two rough pallets with blankets on the floor, a stool that held a chipped and stained pottery ewer and basin, and an enameled tin chamberpot in much better condition.
“I do apologize, ma’am,” the lieutenant said, for the dozenth time. “But half our tents have blown away and the men are holding down the rest.” He held his lantern up, peering dubiously at the dark splotches seeping through the boards of one wall. “It seems not to be leaking too badly. Yet.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Brianna assured him, hunching out of the way so her two large escorts could squeeze in behind her. With four people inside the shed, there was literally no room to turn around, let alone lie down, and she clutched her sketchbox under her cloak, not wanting it to be trampled.
“We are obliged to you, Lieutenant.” William was bent nearly double under the low ceiling, but managed a nod in Hanson’s direction. “Food?”
“Directly, sir,” the lieutenant assured him. “I’m sorry there’s no fire, but at least you’ll be out of the rain. Good night, Mrs. MacKenzie—and thank you again.”
He squirmed past the bulk of John Cinnamon, and disappeared into the blustery night, clutching his hat to his head.
“Take that one,” William said to Brianna, jerking his chin at the bed-sack furthest from the leaking wall. “Cinnamon and I will take the other in shifts.”
She was too tired to argue with him. She laid down her sketchbox, shook the blanket, and when no bedbugs, lice or spiders fell out, sat down, feeling like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.
She closed her eyes, hearing William and John Cinnamon negotiate their movements, but letting the low voices wash over her like the wind and rain outside. Images crowded the backs of her eyes, the trampled grass of the riverside trail, the suspicious faces of the British sentries, the ever-changing light on the dead man’s face, her brother jerking his chin in exactly the way her—their—father did…dark streaks of water and white streaks of chicken shit on silvered boards in the lantern-light…light…it seemed a thousand years since she’d watched the morning sun glow pink through Angelina Brumby’s small sweet ear…
She opened her eyes on darkness, feeling a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t fall asleep before you eat something,” William said, sounding amused. “I promised to see you fed, and I shouldn’t like to break my word.”
“Food?” She shook her head, blinking. A sudden glow rose behind William, and she saw the big Indian set down a clay fire-pot next to the stubby candle he’d just lit. He tilted the candle over the bottom of the upturned chamberpot, then stuck it into the melted wax, holding it until the wax hardened.
“Sorry, I should have asked if you wanted to piss, first,” Cinnamon said, looking at her apologetically. “Only there’s no place else to put the candle.”
We are getting a lot of daily lines at the moment! #DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNINE #noitsnotfinished #noIdontknowwhen #whenitsdoneOK #forCarolSuzanne #distraction
Bree drew a deep breath, savoring the momentary solitude. There was a strong touch of fall in the air, though the sun was bright through the window, and a single late bumblebee hummed slowly in, circled the disappointing wax flowers and bumbled out again.
It would be winter soon, in the mountains. She felt a pang of longing for the high rocks and the clean scent of balsam fir, snow and mud, the close warm smell of sheltered animals. Much more, for her parents, for the sense of her family all about her. Moved by impulse, she turned the page of her sketchbook and tried to capture a glimpse of her father’s face—just a line or two in profile, the straight long nose and the strong brow. And the small curved line that suggested his smile, hidden in the corner of his mouth.
That was enough for now. With the comforting sense of his presence near her, she opened the box where she kept the small lead tubes and the little pots of hand-ground pigment, and made up her simple palette. White, a touch of lamp black, and a dab of rose madder. A moment’s hesitation, and she added a thin line of lemon yellow, and a spot of cobalt.
With the color of shadows in her mind, she went across to the small collection of canvases leaning against the wall, and uncovering the unfinished portrait of [ ], set it on the table, where it would catch the morning light.
“That’s the trouble,” she murmured. “Maybe…” The light. She’d done it with an imagined light source, falling from the right, so as to throw the delicate jawline into relief. But what she hadn’t thought to imagine was what kind of light it was. The shadows cast by a morning light sometimes had a faint green tinge, while those of mid-day were dusky, a slight browning of the natural skin tones, and evening shadows were blue and gray and sometimes a deep lavender. But what time of day suited the mysterious [ ]?
Her ruminations were interrupted by the sound of Angelina’s laughter and footsteps in the hallway. A man’s voice, amused—Mr. Brumby, on his way out.
“Ah, Mrs. MacKenzie. A very good morning to you, ma’am.” Alfred Brumby paused in the doorway, smiling in at her. Angelina clung to his arm, beaming up at him and shedding white powder on the sleeve of his bottle-green suit, but he didn’t appear to notice. “And how is the work proceeding, might I ask?”
He was courteous enough to make it sound as though he really was asking permission to inquire, rather than demanding a progress report.
“Very well, sir,” Bree said, and stepped back, gesturing, so he could come in and see the head sketches that she’d done so far, arranged in fans on the table: Angelina’s complete head and neck from multiple angles, close view of hairline, side and front, assorted small details of ringlets, waves and brilliants.
“Beautiful, beautiful!” he exclaimed. He bent over them, taking a quizzing glass from his pocket and using it to examine the drawings. “She’s captured you exactly, my dear—a thing I shouldn’t have thought possible without the use of leg-irons, I confess.”
I went through a time where I had finished all the books and tried to read them again, but couldn't do it. Now I'm getting impatient for the new book to come out. I don't suppose that DG has given any clue as to release date, except for not in 2017. How much longer must we wait☹
Well, it says in the tags that even herself doesn't know when it will be finished, so I suppose we have ample time to read all the books twice over.
Absolutely love this one.#DailyLines #BookNine #GoTELLTheBEESThatIamGONE #gardens #pb&j #noitisntcomingoutthisyear #enjoySeasonThree #andpossessyoursoulsinpatience
No one went to the Old Garden, as the family called it. The people on the Ridge called it the Witch-child’s Garden, though not often in my hearing. I wasn’t sure whether “witch-child” was meant to refer to Malva Christie herself, or to her baby boy. Both of them had died in the garden, in the midst of blood—and in my company. She had been no more than fifteen.
I never said the name aloud, but to me, it was Malva’s Garden.
For a time, I hadn’t been able to go up to it without a sense of waste and terrible sorrow, but I did go there now and then. To remember. To pray, sometimes. And frankly, if some of the more hidebound Presbyterians of the Ridge had seen me on some of these occasions, talking aloud to the dead or to God, they would have been quite sure they had the right name, but the wrong witch.
But the woods had their own slow magic and the garden was returning to them, healing under grass and moss, blood turning to the crimson bloom of pokeweed, and its sorrow fading into peace.
Despite the creeping transformation, though, some remnants of the garden remained, and small treasures sprang up unexpectedly: there was a stubbornly thriving patch of onions in one corner, a thick growth of comfrey and sorrel fighting back against the grass, and—to my intense delight, several thriving peanut bushes, sprung up from long-buried seeds.
I’d found them the week before, the leaves just beginning to yellow, and dug them up. Hung them in the surgery to dry, plucked the peanuts from the tangle of dirt and rootlets, and roasted them, filling the house with memories of circuses and baseball games.
And tonight, I thought, tipping the cooled nuts into my shelling basin, we’d have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper.
#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #yesitsgoingverywell #noitisntfinished #noIdontknowwhenitwillbefinished #yesIlltellyouwhenitisWe walked on slowly, pausing now and then as I spotted something edible, medicinal, or fascinating. It being autumn, this required a stop every few feet.
“Oo!” I said, heading for a slash of deep, bloody red at the foot of a tree. “Look at that!”
“It looks like a slice of fresh deer’s liver,” Jamie said, peering over my shoulder. “But it doesna smell like blood, so I’m guessing it’s one of the things ye call shelf-funguses?”
“Very astute of you. Fistulina hepatica,” I said, whipping out my knife. “Here, hold this, would you?”
He accepted my basket with no more than a slight roll of the eyes and stood patiently while I cut the fleshy chunks—for there was a whole nest of them hidden under the drifted leaves, like a set of crimson lily pads—free of the tree. I left the smaller ones to grow, but still had at least two pounds of the meaty mushroom. I packed them in layers of damp leaves, but broke off a small piece and offered it to Jamie.
“One side makes you taller, and one side makes you small,” I said, smiling.
“What?”
“Alice in Wonderland—the Caterpillar. I’ll tell you later. It’s said to taste rather like raw beef,” I said.
Muttering, “Caterpillar” under his breath, he accepted the bit, turned it from side to side, inspecting it critically to be sure it harbored no insidious legs, then popped it in his mouth and chewed, eyes narrowed in concentration. He swallowed, and I relaxed a little.
“Maybe like verra old beef, that’s been hung a long time,” he allowed. “But aye, a man could stomach it.”
“That’s actually a very good commendation for a raw mushroom,” I said, pleased. “If I had a few anchovies to hand, I’d make you a nice tartare sauce to go with it.”
“Anchovies,” he said thoughtfully. “I havena had an anchovy in years.” He licked his lower lip in memory. “I might find some, when I go to Wilmington.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“Are you planning to go before the spring?” True, the leaves were still nearly as thick upon the trees as upon the ground, but in the mountains, the weather could turn in the space of an hour. There could be snow in the passes any time between now and next March.
“Aye, I thought I’d risk one more trip before winter sets in,” he said casually. “D’ye want to come, Sassenach? I thought ye’d maybe be busy wi’ the preserving.”
“Hmpf.” While it was perfectly true that I ought to be spending every waking hour in finding, catching, smoking, salting or preserving food…it was equally true that I ought to be replenishing our stocks of needles, pins, sugar—that was a good point, I’d need more sugar to be making the fruit preserves—and thread, to say nothing of other bits of household iron-mongery and the medicines I couldn’t find or make, like Jesuit’s bark and ether.
And, if you came right down to it, wild horses couldn’t keep me from going with him. Jamie knew it, too; I could see the side of his mouth curling.
This must be the most wonderful excerpt herself has given to us so far. I almost immediately had tears in my eyes! Such joy!#DailyLines #BookNine #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #Happy99thBirthdayClaire !
There was a stone under my right buttock, but I didn’t want to move. The tiny heartbeat under my fingers was soft and stubborn, the fleeting jolts life and the space between, infinity, my connection to the endless night sky and the rising flame.
“Move your arse a bit, Sassenach,” said a voice in my ear. “I need to scratch my nose and ye’re sitting on my hand.” Jamie twitched his fingers under me, and I moved by reflex, turning my head toward him as I shifted and resettled, keeping my hold on Mandy, bonelessly asleep in my arms.
He smiled at me over Jem’s tousled head, flexed his now-free hand, and scratched his nose. It must be well past midnight, but the fire was still high, and the light sparked off the stubble of his beard and glowed as softly in his eyes as in his grandson’s red hair and the shadowed folds of the worn plaid he’d wrapped about them both.
On the other side of the fire, Brianna laughed, in the quiet way people laugh in the middle of the night with sleeping children near.
She laid her head on Roger’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed. She looked completely exhausted, her hair unwashed and tangled, the firelight showing deep hollows in her face…but happy.
“What is it ye find funny, a nighean?” Jamie asked, shifting Jem into a more comfortable position. Jem was fighting as hard as he could to stay awake, but was losing the fight. He gaped enormously and shook his head, blinking like a dazed owl.
“Wha’s funny?” he repeated, but the last word trailed off, leaving him with his mouth half-open and a glassy stare.
His mother giggled, a lovely girlish sound, and I felt Jamie’s smile.
“I just asked Daddy if he remembered a Gathering we came to, years ago. The clans were all called at a big bonfire and I handed Daddy a burning branch and told him to go down to the fire and say the MacKenzies were there.”
“Oh.” Jem blinked once, then twice, looked at the fire blazing in front of us, and a slight frown formed between his small red brows. “Where are we now?”
“Home,” Roger said firmly, and his eyes met mine, then passed to Jamie. “For good.”
Jamie let out the same breath I’d been holding since the afternoon, when the MacKenzies had appeared suddenly in the clearing below, and we had flown down the hill to meet them. There had been one moment of joyous, wordless explosion as we all flung ourselves at each other, and then the explosion had widened, as Amy Higgins came out of her house, summoned by the noise, to be followed by Bobby, then Aidan—who had whooped at sight of Jem and tackled him, knocking him flat—Orrie and little Rob.
Jo Beardsley had been in the woods nearby, heard the racket and come to see…and within what seemed like moments, the clearing was alive with people. Six households were within reach of the news before sundown; the rest would undoubtedly hear of it tomorrow.
The instant outpouring of Highland hospitality had been wonderful; women and girls had run back to their cabins and fetched whatever they had baking or boiling for supper, the men had gathered wood and—at Jamie’s behest—lugged it up to the crest where the outline of the New House stood, and we had welcomed home our family in style, surrounded by friends.
Hundreds of questions had been asked of the travelers: where had they come from? How was the journey? What had they seen? No one had asked if they were happy to be back; that was taken for granted by everyone.
Neither Jamie nor I had asked any questions. Time enough for that—and now that we were alone, Roger had just answered the only one that truly mattered.
Hurray! New daily lines, capturing! Not happy about release date, though!#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #Noitsnotfinished #nowherenear #maybelate2018 #maybenot #whoknows #gowatchtheshow
I was startled from a solid sleep by Jamie exploding out of bed beside me. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but as usual, it left me sitting bolt upright amid the quilts, dry-mouthed and completely dazed, heart hammering like a drill-press.
He was already down the stairs; I heard the thump of his bare feet on the last few treads—and above that sound, frenzied pounding on the front door. A ripple of unrest spread through the house: rustling bedclothes, sleepy voices, opening doors.
I shook my head violently and flung off the covers. _Him or me?_ was the first coherent thought that formed out of the fog drifting through my brain. Night alarms like this might be news of violence or misadventure, and sometimes of a nature that required all hands, like a house fire or someone having unexpectedly met with a hunting panther at a spring. More often, though…
I heard Jamie’s voice, and the panic left me. It was low, questioning, with a cadence that meant he was soothing someone. Someone else was talking, in high-pitched agitation, but it wasn’t the sound of disaster.
_Me, then. Childbirth or accident?_ My mind had suddenly resurfaced and was working clearly, even while my body fumbled to and fro, trying to recall what I had done with my grubby stockings. _Probably birth, in the middle of the night_… But the uneasy thought of fire still lurked on the edge of my thoughts.
I had a clear picture in my mind of my emergency kit, and was grateful that I’d thought to refurbish it just before supper. It was sitting ready on the corner of my surgery table. My mind was less clear about other things; I’d put my stays on backward. I yanked them off, flung them on the bed, and went to splash water on my face, thinking a lot of things I couldn’t say out loud, as I could hear children’s feet now pattering across the landing.
I reached the bottom of the stairs belatedly, to find Fanny and Germaine with Jamie, who was talking with a very young girl no more than Fanny’s age, standing barefoot, distraught, and wearing nothing more than a threadbare shift. I didn’t recognize her.
“Ach, here’s Herself now,” Jamie said, glancing over his shoulder. He had a hand on the girl’s shoulder, as though to keep her from flying away. She looked as if she might: thin as a broomstraw, with baby-fine brown hair tangled by the wind, and eyes looking anxiously in every direction for possible help.
“This is Annie Cloudtree, Claire,” he said, nodding toward the girl. “Fanny, will ye find a shawl or something to lend the lass, so she doesna freeze?”
“I don’t n-need—“ the girl began, but her arms were wrapped around herself and she was shivering so hard that her words shook.
“Her mother’s with child,” Jamie interrupted her, looking at me. “And maybe having a bit of trouble with the birth.”
“We c-can’t p-pay—“
“Don’t worry about that,” I said, and nodding to Jamie, took her in my arms. She was small and bony and very cold, like a half-feathered nestling fallen from a tree.
“It will be all right,” I said softly to her, and smoothed down her hair. “We’ll go to your mother at once. Where do you live?”
She gulped and wouldn’t look up, but was so cold she clung to me for warmth.
“I don’t know. I m-mean—I don’t know how to say. Just—if you can come with me, I can take you back?” She wasn’t Scottish.
I looked at Jamie for information—I’d not heard of the Cloudtrees; they must be recent settlers—but he shook his head, one brow raised. He didn’t know them, either.
“Did ye come afoot, lassie?” he asked, and when she nodded, asked, “Was the sun still up when ye left your home?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. ‘Twas well dark, we’d all gone to bed. Then my mother’s pains came on sudden, and…” She gulped again, tears welling in her eyes.
“And the moon?” Jamie asked, as though nothing were amiss. “Was it up when ye set out?”
His matter-of-fact tone eased her a little, and she took an audible breath, swallowed, and nodded.
“Well up, sir. Two hands-breadths above the edge of the earth.”
“What a very poetic turn of phrase,” I said, smiling at her. Fanny had come with my old gardening shawl—it was ratty and had holes, but had been made of thick new wool to start with. I took it from Fanny with a nod of thanks and wrapped it round the girl’s shoulders.
Jamie had stepped out on the porch, presumably to see where the moon now was. He stepped back in, and nodded to me.
“The brave wee lass has been abroad in the night alone for about three hours, Sassenach. Miss Annie—is there a decent trail that leads to your father’s place?”
Her soft brow scrunched in concern—she wasn’t sure what “decent” might mean in this context—but she nodded uncertainly.
“There’s a trail,” she said, looking from Jamie to me in hopes that this might be enough.
“We’ll ride, then,” he said to me, over her head. “The moon’s bright enough. “ _And I think we’d best hurry_, his expression added. I rather thought he was right.
Ah -that is a nice glimpse through DG's window into the world of Jamie and Claire :)
I like that description how she gets her brain working after being ripped out of sleep. That's me almost every morning! LOL
Annette, Can you post the link for all the Daily Lines? I had it before but I can.t find it, thanks
Thanks for sharing. This made my morning ;)
Cheri wrote: "Annette, Can you post the link for all the Daily Lines? I had it before but I can.t find it, thanks"Sorry, Cheri, I don't quite know what you mean. I've collected them all here as I came across them on facebook. I don't check Diana's fb page regularly, but I follow it and I think I've got most of the daily lines she posted. If there's a link somewhere else, I'm not aware of it.
Thanks for sharing. I am on book 6, ~ 2/3rds done, but pause once in awhile to go back and rereading from book 1 because I don't want to finish all the books and have to wait for this one! I am following Voyager along with the show and have reread up to Fiery Cross (5) a few times already! Just keep discovering details I had forgotten. Love reading those simple tender moments and 'other' moments between Jamie and Claire. This TV season is going so fast as I keep wanting the next episode to air!
Wow, Beth, I admire your discipline! I know I would fly through them all again if I started reading now! I wouldn't be able to stop. I've read No. 1 about 8 times before moving on and have done the whole series twice, I think. I don't watch the show at all, because I'm in Germany and they did a voice-over. I hate that. Besides, there are things I can read without a problem but I absolutely do not want to see them.
Annette wrote: "Cheri wrote: "Annette, Can you post the link for all the Daily Lines? I had it before but I can.t find it, thanks"Sorry, Cheri, I don't quite know what you mean. I've collected them all here as I..."
Annette, I have been so appreciative that you have been posting the Daily Lines here. I was on Facebook looking for the place that contained all the Daily Lines from Don't tell the Bees and I can[t find what I was looking for since my former computer died and I lost all my stuff,
Cheri wrote: "Annette wrote: "Cheri wrote: "Annette, Can you post the link for all the Daily Lines? I had it before but I can.t find it, thanks"Sorry, Cheri, I don't quite know what you mean. I've collected th..."
Sorry to hear about your computer! RIP...
Well, like I said, I'm not aware that there is a collection somewhere else of the daily lines exclusively. Try Dianas FB page and ask there?
There's a link to the daily lines at Diana's website, dianagabaldon.com.
Parker, thank you. I finally found the most recent dialy line going through Diana's website for Facebook.
Dear friends,unfortunately Herself has asked in her most recent facebook post that the daily lines should not be copy and pasted into other sites. Of course I will adher to her wishes and unhappily refrain from adding further daily lines in this thread.
So sorry. But we do have the information that there is a link to the daily lines at her website.
Annette I have combed through Diana's sites for Daily Lines on her Facebook posting and I can't find the most recent ones that you posted. The ones I found are 2 years old. Where are the most recent ones on Facebook, Anyone? Thanks!
Here's the link: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDianaG...I just saw that we're allowed to post links, so I'll keep doing that...
Already a new line to makes us all scratching our feet with anticipation, a long one this time and totally lovely!https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDianaG...
Prepare to wait for another year or so!
Honestly, I don't mind the wait too much. Her books are so richly detailed with historical minutia (and I'm a sucker for that, as Living History--18thC--is my field) and I know from my own research experience that it takes time.Plus, I get the sense that she's a oerfectionist.
I once saw an interview where she described her writing process. She starts out with a picture in her head and then she looks at all the details of that picture, e.g. a glass goblet. She starts wondering what kind of a glass goblet it is and in which context such a goblet would be used. Then she looks at the light, where does it come from? Then she will know what time of day she's in. From there on she's adding on little detail after another until she finally reaches the point where she knows where she is in the story. It takes forever! And yes, she is definitely a perfectionist plus she's got all this hype with the tv show to handle. I'm really not surprised at the time it takes her to finish Bees.
Perhaps I should feel grateful that I'm an almost unknown author!
I once saw an interview where she described her writing process. She starts out with a picture in her head and then she looks at all the details of that picture, e.g. a glass goblet. She starts wondering what kind of a glass goblet it is and in which context such a goblet would be used. Then she looks at the light, where does it come from? Then she will know what time of day she's in. From there on she's adding on little detail after another until she finally reaches the point where she knows where she is in the story. It takes forever! And yes, she is definitely a perfectionist plus she's got all this hype with the tv show to handle. I'm really not surprised at the time it takes her to finish Bees.
Perhaps I should feel grateful that I'm an almost unknown author!
Hi everyone. It's been a while since I read the books but I could swear Mandy and Jem are able to see and talk to Jamie when they go back to the future. Am I right or did I dream about this? 😅 If I'm right can someone tell me in which parte of the books can I read it?
Hi Carla - in book 8 Jamie has dreams about what they are doing when they are in the future, but can’t talk or communicate with them. I hope that helps!
Hi, any news when this book will come out?
Layali wrote: "Hi, any news when this book will come out?"As far as I know she's said it was finished but no released date yet as it still has to go through all the publishing process. I'm hopeful for this year but I wouldn't think it will be a few more months at least.
Though sooner would be lovely!
Layali wrote: "Hi, any news when this book will come out?"As if today the release date is 11/23/2021. A long way away still but I am excited to finally know when I can read it!
My first thought at the news of the date.....do I have time to reread the series before then?????? So excited!
I'm new to the group and very excited to start reading this series....i read the first one years ago.... Then watched the whole series with hubby who loves the show.......wondering will there be a monthly Buddy Read for each of the prior books?
“Lie down,” I said firmly, and pointed to my lap.
“Nay, I’ll be f—“
“I don’t care whether you’re fine or not,” I said. “I said, lie down.”
“I’ve work to—“
“You’ll be flat on your face in another minute,” I said. “Lie. Down.”
He opened his mouth, but a spasm of pain made him shut his eyes, and he couldn’t locate any words with which to argue. He swallowed, opened his eyes, and sat down beside me, very gingerly. He was breathing slowly and shallowly, as though drawing a deep breath might make things worse.
I stood up, took his shoulders and turned him gently so I could reach his plait. I undid his ribbon and unraveled the thick strands of auburn hair. It still was mostly red, though soft white threads caught the light here and there.
“Down,” I said again, sitting and pulling his shoulders toward me. He moaned a little, but stopped resisting and lowered himself very slowly, ‘til his head rested heavy in my lap. I touched his face, my fingers feather-light on his skin, tracing the bones and hollows, temples and orbits, cheekbones and jaw. Then I slid my fingers into the soft mass of his hair, warm in my hands, and did the same to his scalp. He let out his breath, carefully, and I felt his body loosen, growing heavier as he relaxed.
“Where does it hurt?” I murmured, making very light circles round his temples with my thumbs. “Here?”
“Aye…but…” He put up a hand, blindly, and cupped it over his right eye. “It feels like an arrow—straight through into my brain.”
“Mmm.” I pressed my thumb gently round the bony orbit of the eye, and slid my other hand under his head, probing the base of his skull. I could feel the muscles knotted there, hard as walnuts under the skin. “Well, then.”
I took my hands away and he let his breath out.
“It won’t hurt,” I reassured him, reaching for the jar of blue ointment.
“It does hurt,” he said, and squinched his eyelids as a fresh spasm seized him.
“I know.” I unlidded the jar, but let it stand, the sharp fragrance of peppermint, camphor and green peppercorns scenting the air. “I’ll make it better.”
He didn’t make any reply, but settled himself as I began to massage the ointment gently into his neck, the base of his skull, the skin of his forehead and temples. I couldn’t use the ointment so close to his eye, but put a dab under his nose, and he took a slow, deep breath. I’d make a cool poultice for the eye when I’d finished. For now, though…
“Do you remember,” I said, my voice low and quiet. “Telling me once about visiting Bird Who Sings in the Morning? And how his mother came and combed your hair?”
“Aye,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “She said…she would comb the snakes from my hair.” Another hesitation. “She…did.”
Clearly he did remember—and so did I recall what he’d told me about it. How she’d gently combed his hair, over and over, while he told her—in a language she didn’t speak—the trouble in his heart. Guilt, distress…and the forgotten faces of the men he’d killed.
There is a spot, just where the zygomatic arch joins the maxilla, where the nerves are often inflamed and sensitive….yes, just there. I pressed my thumb gently up into the spot and he gasped and stiffened a little. I put my other hand on his shoulder.
“Shh. Breathe.”
His breath came with a small moan, but he did. I held the spot, pressing harder, moving my thumb just a little, and after a long moment, felt the spot warm and seem to melt under my touch. He felt it too, and his body relaxed again.
“Let me do that for you,” I said softly. The wooden comb he’d made me sat on the little table beside the jar of ointment. With one hand still on his shoulder, I picked it up.
“I…no, I dinna want…” But I was drawing the comb softly through his hair, the wooden teeth gentle against his skin. Over and over, very slowly.
I didn’t say anything for quite some time. He breathed. The light came in low now, the color of wildflower honey, and he was warm in my hands, the weight of him heavy in my lap.
“Tell me,” I said to him at last, in a whisper no louder than the breeze through the open window. “I don’t need to know, but you need to tell me. Say it in Gaelic, or Italian or German—some language I don’t understand, if that’s better. But say it.”
His breath came a little faster and he tightened, but I went on combing, in long, even strokes that swept over his head and laid his hair untangled in a soft, gleaming mass over my thigh. After a moment, he opened his eyes, dark and half-focused.
“Sassenach?” he said softly.
“Mm?”
“I dinna ken any language that I think ye wouldna understand.”
He breathed once more, closed his eyes, and began haltingly to speak, his voice soft as the beating of my heart.