The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(17)
Next day
Michael Murray stood in the aisle of the aging shed, feeling puny and unreal. He’d waked with a terrible headache, the result of having drunk a great deal of mixed spirits on an empty stomach, and while the headache had receded to a dull throb at the back of his skull, it had left him feeling trampled and left for dead. His cousin Jared, owner of Fraser et Cie, looked at him with the cold eye of long experience, shook his head and sighed deeply, but said nothing, merely taking the list from his nerveless fingers and beginning the count on his own.
He wished Jared had rebuked him. Everyone still tiptoed round him, careful of him. And like a wet dressing on a wound, their care kept the wound of Lillie’s loss open and weeping. The sight of Léonie didn’t help, either—so much like Lillie to look at, so different in character. She said they must help and comfort each other and, to that end, came to visit every other day, or so it seemed. He really wished she would … just go away, though the thought shamed him.
“How’s the wee nun, then?” Jared’s voice, dry and matter-of-fact as always, drew him out of his bruised and soggy thoughts. “Give her a good send-off to the convent?”
“Aye. Well—aye. More or less.” Michael mustered up a feeble smile. He didn’t really want to think about Sister Gregory this morning, either.
“What did ye give her?” Jared handed the checklist to Humberto, the Italian shed-master, and looked Michael over appraisingly. “I hope it wasna the new Rioja that did that to ye.”
“Ah … no.” Michael struggled to focus his attention. The heady atmosphere of the shed, thick with the fruity exhalations of the resting casks, was making him dizzy. “It was Moselle. Mostly. And a bit of rum punch.”
“Oh, I see.” Jared’s ancient mouth quirked up on one side. “Did I never tell ye not to mix wine wi’ rum?”
“Not above two hundred times, no.” Jared was moving, and Michael followed him perforce down the narrow aisle, the casks in their serried ranks rising high above on either side.
“Rum’s a demon. But whisky’s a virtuous dram,” Jared said, pausing by a rack of small blackened casks. “So long as it’s a good make, it’ll never turn on ye. Speakin’ of which”—he tapped the end of one cask, which gave off the resonant deep thunk of a full barrel—“what’s this? It came up from the docks this morning.”
“Oh, aye.” Michael stifled a belch and smiled painfully. “That, cousin, is the Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray memorial uisge baugh. My da and Uncle Jamie made it during the winter. They thought ye might like a wee cask for your personal use.”
Jared’s brows rose and he gave Michael a swift sideways glance. Then he turned back to examine the cask, bending close to sniff at the seam between the lid and staves.
“I’ve tasted it,” Michael assured him. “I dinna think it will poison ye. But ye should maybe let it age a few years.”
Jared made a rude noise in his throat, and his hand curved gently over the swell of the staves. He stood thus for a moment as though in benediction, then turned suddenly and took Michael into his arms. His own breathing was hoarse, congested with sorrow. He was years older than Da and Uncle Jamie but had known the two of them all their lives.
“I’m sorry for your faither, lad,” he said after a moment, and let go, patting Michael on the shoulder. He looked at the cask and sniffed deeply. “I can tell it will be fine.” He paused, breathing slowly, then nodded once, as though making up his mind to something.
“I’ve a thing in mind, a charaid. I’d been thinking, since ye went to Scotland—and now that we’ve a kinswoman in the church, so to speak … Come back to the office with me, and I’ll tell ye.”
* * *
It was chilly in the street, but the goldsmith’s back room was cozy as a womb, with a porcelain stove throbbing with heat and woven wool hangings on the walls. Rakoczy hastily unwound the comforter about his neck. It didn’t do to sweat indoors; the sweat chilled the instant one went out again, and next thing you knew, it would be la grippe at the best, pleurisy or pneumonia at the worst.
Rosenwald himself was comfortable in shirt and waistcoat, without even a wig, only a plum-colored turban to keep his polled scalp warm. The goldsmith’s stubby fingers traced the curves of the octofoil salver, turned it over—and stopped dead. Rakoczy felt the tingle of warning at the base of his spine and deliberately relaxed himself, affecting a nonchalant self-confidence.
“Where did you get this, monsieur, if I may ask?” Rosenwald looked up at him, but there was no accusation in the goldsmith’s aged face—only a wary excitement.
“It was an inheritance,” Rakoczy said, glowing with earnest innocence. “An elderly aunt left it—and a few other pieces—to me. Is it worth anything more than the value of the silver?”
The goldsmith opened his mouth, then shut it, glancing at Rakoczy. Was he honest? Rakoczy wondered with interest. He’s already told me it’s something special. Will he tell me why, in hopes of getting other pieces? Or lie, to get this one cheap? Rosenwald had a good reputation, but he was a Jew.
“Paul de Lamerie,” Rosenwald said reverently, his index finger tracing the hallmark. “This was made by Paul de Lamerie.”
A shock ran up Rakoczy’s backbone. Merde! He’d brought the wrong one!