Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(57)
“Because of the voices. I thought maybe—maybe I wouldna hear them in here. Or…if I still did, maybe somebody—a priest, maybe?—could tell me what they were and what I should do about them.”
Sister Eustacia was comforting the new girl, half-sunk on one knee to bring her big, homely, sweet face close to the girl’s. Michael glanced at them, then back at Joan, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m guessing ye havena told anyone yet,” he said. “Did ye reckon ye’d practice on me first?”
Her own mouth twitched.
“Maybe.” His eyes were dark but had a sort of warmth to them, as if they drew it from the heat of his hair. She looked down; her hands were pleating the edge of her blouse, which had come untucked. “It’s no just that, though.”
He made the sort of noise in his throat that meant, “Aye, then, go on.” Why didn’t French people do like that? she wondered. So much easier. But she pushed the thought aside; she’d made up her mind to tell him, and now was the time to do it.
“I told ye because—that man,” she blurted. “The Comte.” He squinted at her. “The Comte St. Germain?”
“Well, I dinna ken his name, now, do I?” she snapped. “But when I saw him, one of the voices pops up and says to me, ‘Tell him not to do it. Tell him he must not.’?”
“It did?”
“Aye, and it was verra firm about it. I mean—they are, usually. It’s no just an opinion, take it or leave it. But this one truly meant it.” She spread her hands, helpless to explain the feeling of dread and urgency. She swallowed.
“And then…your friend. Monsieur Pépin. The first time I saw him, one o’ the voices said ‘Tell him not to do it.’?”
Michael’s thick red eyebrows drew together.
“D’ye think it’s the same thing they’re not supposed to do?” He sounded startled. “Well, I don’t know, now, do I?” she said, a little exasperated. “The voices didn’t say. But I saw that the man on the ship was going to die, and I didna say anything, because I couldn’t think what to say. And then he did die, and maybe he wouldn’t have if I’d spoken…so I—well, I thought I’d best say something to someone.”
He thought about that for a moment, then nodded uncertainly.
“Aye. All right. I’ll—well, I dinna ken what to do about it, either, to be honest. But I’ll talk to them both and I’ll have that in my mind, so maybe I’ll think of something. D’ye want me to tell them, ‘Don’t do it’?”
She grimaced and looked at Sister Eustacia. There wasn’t much time.
“I already told the comte. Just…maybe. If ye think it might help. Now—” Her hand darted under her apron and she passed him the slip of paper, fast. “We’re only allowed to write to our families twice a year,” she said, lowering her voice. “But I wanted Mam to know I was all right. Could ye see she gets that, please? And…and maybe tell her a bit, yourself, that I’m weel and—and happy. Tell her I’m happy,” she repeated, more firmly.
Sister Eustacia was now standing by the door, emanating an intent to come and tell them it was time for Michael to leave.
“I will,” he said. He couldn’t touch her, he knew that, so bowed instead and bowed deeply to Sister Eustacia, who came toward them, looking benevolent.
“I’ll come to Mass at the chapel on Sundays, how’s that?” he said rapidly. “If I’ve a letter from your mam, or ye have to speak to me, gie me a wee roll of the eyes or something—I’ll figure something out.”
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, Sister Gregory, postulant in the Convent of Angels, regarded the bum of a large cow. The cow in question was named Mirabeau and was of uncertain temper, as evidenced by the nervously lashing tail.
“She’s kicked three of us this week,” said Sister Anne-Joseph, eyeing the cow resentfully. “And spilt the milk twice. Sister Jeanne-Marie was most upset.”
“Well, we canna have that, now, can we?” Joan murmured in English. “N’inquiétez-vous pas,” she added in French, hoping that was at least somewhat grammatical. “Let me do it.”
“Better you than me,” Sister Anne-Joseph said, crossing herself, and vanished before Sister Joan might think better of the offer.
A week spent working in the cowshed was intended as punishment for her flighty behavior in the marketplace, but Joan was grateful for it. There was nothing better for steadying the nerves than cows.
Granted, the convent’s cows were not quite like her mother’s sweet-tempered, shaggy red Hieland coos, but if you came right down to it, a cow was a cow, and even a French-speaking wee besom like the present Mirabeau was no match for Joan MacKimmie, who’d driven kine to and from the shielings for years and fed her mother’s kine in the byre beside the house with sweet hay and the leavings from supper.
With that in mind, she circled Mirabeau thoughtfully, eyeing the steadily champing jaws and the long slick of blackish-green drool that hung down from slack pink lips. She nodded once, slipped out of the cowshed, and made her way down the allée behind it, picking what she could find. Mirabeau, presented with a bouquet of fresh grasses, tiny daisies, and—delicacy of all delicacies—fresh sorrel, bulged her eyes half out of her head, opened her massive jaw, and inhaled the sweet stuff. The ominous tail ceased its lashing and the massive creature stood as if turned to stone, aside from the ecstatically grinding jaws.