Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(66)

He drew the fresh air gratefully into his lungs. The wind was toward the city now, coming off the fields, full of the resinous cool scent of pine trees and the breath of grass and cattle. He felt Joan breathe it in, sigh deeply, and then she turned to him, put her arms around him, and rested her forehead on his chest. He put his arms round her and they stood for some time, in peace.

Finally, she stirred and straightened up.

“Ye’d best take me back, then,” she said. “The sisters will be half out o’ their minds.”

He was conscious of a sharp sense of disappointment but turned obediently toward the coach, standing in the distance. Then he turned back.

“Ye’re sure?” he said. “Did your voices tell ye to go back?”

She made a sound that wasn’t quite a rueful laugh.

“I dinna need a voice to tell me that.” She brushed a hand through her hair, smoothing it off her face. “In the Highlands, if a man’s widowed, he takes another wife as soon as he can get one; he’s got to have someone to mend his shirt and rear his bairns. But Sister Philomène says it’s different in Paris; that a man might mourn for a year.”

“He might,” he said, after a short silence. Would a year be enough, he wondered, to heal the great hole where Lillie had been? He knew he would never forget—never stop looking for her—but he didn’t forget what Ian had told him, either.

“But after a time, ye find ye’re in a different place than ye were. A different person than ye were. And then ye look about and see what’s there with ye. Ye’ll maybe find a use for yourself.”

Joan’s face was pale and serious in the moonlight, her mouth gentle.

“It’s a year before a postulant makes up her mind. Whether to stay and become a novice—or…or leave. It takes time. To know.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “Aye, it does.”

He turned to go, but she stopped him, a hand on his arm.

“Michael,” she said. “Kiss me, aye? I think I should maybe know that, before I decide.”





A PLAGUE OF ZOMBIES





INTRODUCTION


THE THING ABOUT Lord John’s situation and career—unmarried, no fixed establishment, discreet political connections, fairly high-ranking officer—is that he can easily take part in far-flung adventures rather than being bound to a pedestrian daily life. To be honest, once I started doing “bulges” (that is, shorter pieces of fiction) involving him, I just looked at which year it was and then consulted one of my historical timeline references to see what kinds of interesting events happened in that year. That’s how he happened to find himself in Quebec for the battle there.

In terms of this story, though, the impetus came from two different sources, both “trails” leading back from the main book of the series—Voyager, in this case. To wit: I knew that Lord John was the governor of Jamaica in 1766, when Claire met him aboard the Porpoise; it wasn’t by any means impossible for a man with connections and no experience to be appointed to such a post—but it was more likely for a man who had had experience in the territory to which he was appointed. “Plague” is set in 1761, and is the story of how Lord John gained that experience. I knew also that Geillis Duncan wasn’t dead and where she was. And, after all, with a story set in Jamaica, how could I possibly resist zombies?





Spanish Town, Jamaica

June 1761

THERE WAS A SNAKE on the drawing-room table. A small snake, but still. Lord John Grey wondered whether to say anything about it.

The governor, appearing quite oblivious of the coiled reptile’s presence, picked up a cut-crystal decanter that stood not six inches from the snake. Perhaps it was a pet, or perhaps the residents of Jamaica were accustomed to keeping a tame snake in residence, to kill rats. Judging from the number of rats Grey had seen since leaving the ship, this was sensible—though this particular snake didn’t appear large enough to take on even your average mouse.

The wine was decent, but served at body heat, and it seemed to pass directly through Grey’s gullet and into his blood. He’d had nothing to eat since before dawn and felt the muscles of his lower back begin to tingle and relax. He put the glass down; he wanted a clear head.

“I cannot tell you, sir, how happy I am to receive you,” said the governor, putting down his own glass, empty. “The position is acute.”

“So you said in your letter to Lord North. The situation has not changed appreciably since then?” It had been nearly three months since that letter was written; a lot could change in three months.

He thought Governor Warren shuddered, despite the temperature in the room.

“It has become worse,” the governor said, picking up the decanter. “Much worse.”

Grey felt his shoulders tense, but spoke calmly.

“In what way? Have there been more—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “More demonstrations?” It was a mild word to describe the burning of cane fields, the looting of plantations, and the wholesale liberation of slaves.

Warren gave a hollow laugh. His handsome face was beading with sweat. There was a crumpled handkerchief on the arm of his chair, and he picked it up to mop at his skin. He hadn’t shaved this morning—or, quite possibly, yesterday; Grey could hear the faint rasp of his dark whiskers on the cloth.