Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(30)

“Eh?” She glanced at him, to see him gesturing toward the hatchway that led downstairs. She turned back, blinking—but the quay had vanished, and her mother with it.

“No,” she said. “Not yet. I’ll just…” She wanted to see the land so long as she could. It would be her last sight of Scotland, ever, and the thought made her wame curl into a small, tight ball. She waved a vague hand toward the hatchway. “You go, though. I’m all right by myself.”

He didn’t go but came to stand beside her, gripping the rail. She turned away from him a little, so he wouldn’t see her weep, but on the whole she wasn’t sorry he’d stayed.

Neither of them spoke, and the land sank slowly, as though the sea swallowed it, and there was nothing round them now but the open sea, glassy gray and rippling under a scud of clouds. The prospect made her dizzy, and she closed her eyes, swallowing.

Dear Lord Jesus, don’t let me be sick!

A small shuffling noise beside her made her open her eyes, to find Michael Murray regarding her with some concern.

“Are ye all right, Miss Joan?” He smiled a little. “Or should I call ye Sister?”

“No,” she said, taking a grip on her nerve and her stomach and drawing herself up. “I’m no a nun yet, am I?”

He looked her up and down, in the frank way Hieland men did, and smiled more broadly.

“Have ye ever seen a nun?” he asked.

“I have not,” she said, as starchily as she could. “I havena seen God or the Blessed Virgin, either, but I believe in them, too.”

Much to her annoyance, he burst out laughing. Seeing the annoyance, though, he stopped at once, though she could see the urge still trembling there behind his assumed gravity.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss MacKimmie,” he said. “I wasna questioning the existence of nuns. I’ve seen quite a number of the creatures with my own eyes.” His lips were twitching, and she glared at him.

“Creatures, is it?”

“A figure of speech, nay more, I swear it! Forgive me, Sister—I ken not what I do!” He held up a hand, cowering in mock terror. The urge to laugh made her that much more cross, but she contented herself with a simple “mmphm” of disapproval.

Curiosity got the better of her, though, and after a few moments spent inspecting the foaming wake of the ship, she asked, not looking at him, “When ye saw the nuns, then—what were they doing?”

He’d got control of himself by now and answered her seriously.

“Well, I see the Sisters of Notre Dame, who work among the poor all the time in the streets. They always go out by twos, ken, and both nuns will be carrying great huge baskets, filled with food, I suppose—maybe medicines? They’re covered, though—the baskets—so I canna say for sure what’s in them. Perhaps they’re smuggling brandy and lace down to the docks—” He dodged aside from her upraised hand, laughing.

“Oh, ye’ll be a rare nun, Sister Joan! Terror daemonum, solatium miserorum…”

She pressed her lips tight together, not to laugh. Terror of demons—the cheek of him!

“Not Sister Joan,” she said. “They’ll give me a new name, likely, at the convent.”

“Oh, aye?” He wiped hair out of his eyes, interested. “D’ye get to choose the name yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Well, though—what name would ye pick, if ye had the choosing?”

“Er…well…” She hadn’t told anyone, but, after all, what harm could it do? She wouldn’t see Michael Murray again once they reached Paris. “Sister Gregory,” she blurted.

Rather to her relief, he didn’t laugh.

“Oh, that’s a good name,” he said. “After St. Gregory the Great, is it?”

“Well…aye. Ye don’t think it’s presumptuous?” she asked, a little anxious.

“Oh, no!” he said, surprised. “I mean, how many nuns are named Mary? If it’s not presumptuous to be named after the mother o’ God, how can it be highfalutin to call yourself after a mere pope?” He smiled at that, so merrily that she smiled back.

“How many nuns are named Mary?” she asked, out of curiosity. “It’s common, is it?”

“Oh, aye, ye said ye’d not seen a nun.” He’d stopped making fun of her, though, and answered seriously. “About half the nuns I’ve met seem to be called Sister Mary Something—ye ken, Sister Mary Polycarp, Sister Mary Joseph…like that.”

“And ye meet a great many nuns in the course o’ your business, do ye?” Michael Murray was a wine merchant, the junior partner of Fraser et Cie—and, judging from the cut of his clothes, did well enough at it.

His mouth twitched, but he answered seriously.

“Well, I do, really. Not every day, I mean, but the sisters come round to my office quite often—or I go to them. Fraser et Cie supplies wine to most o’ the monasteries and convents in Paris, and some will send a pair of nuns to place an order or to take away something special—otherwise, we deliver it, of course. And even the orders who dinna take wine themselves—and most of the Parisian houses do, they bein’ French, aye?—need sacramental wine for their chapels. And the begging orders come round like clockwork to ask alms.”