The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(19)

Murray blinked, clearly surprised to hear this.

“Really?” He looked rather appalled.

“Yes, but it was all a long time ago,” Rosenwald said hastily, clearly thinking he’d said too much. He waved a hand toward his back room. “If you’ll give me a moment, monsieur, I have a chalice actually here, if you would care to see it—and a paten, too; we might make some accommodation of price, if you take both. They were made for a patron who died suddenly, before the chalice was finished, so there is almost no decoration—plenty of room for the names to be applied, and perhaps we might put the, um, aunt and uncle on the paten?”

Murray nodded, interested, and, at Rosenwald’s gesture, went round the counter and followed the old man into his back room. Rakoczy put the octofoil salver under his arm and left, as quietly as possible, head buzzing with questions.

* * *

Jared eyed Michael over the dinner table, shook his head, and bent to his plate.

“I’m not drunk!” Michael blurted, then bent his own head, face flaming. He could feel Jared’s eyes boring into the top of his head.

“Not now, ye’re not.” Jared’s voice wasn’t accusing. In fact, it was quiet, almost kindly. “But ye have been. Ye’ve not touched your dinner, and ye’re the color of rotten wax.”

“I—” The words caught in his throat, just as the food had. Eels in garlic sauce. The smell wafted up from the dish, and he stood up suddenly, lest he either vomit or burst into tears.

“I’ve nay appetite, cousin,” he managed to say, before turning away. “Excuse me.”

He would have left, but he hesitated that moment too long, not wanting to go up to the room where Lillie no longer was but not wanting to look petulant by rushing out into the street. Jared rose and came round to him with a decided step.

“I’m nay verra hungry myself, a charaid,” Jared said, taking him by the arm. “Come sit wi’ me for a bit and take a dram. It’ll settle your wame.”

He didn’t much want to, but there was nothing else he could think of doing, and within a few moments he found himself in front of a fragrant applewood fire, with a glass of his father’s whisky in hand, the warmth of both easing the tightness of chest and throat. It wouldn’t cure his grief, he knew, but it made it possible to breathe.

“Good stuff,” Jared said, sniffing cautiously but approvingly. “Even raw as it is. It’ll be wonderful aged a few years.”

“Aye. Uncle Jamie kens what he’s about; he said he’d made whisky a good many times in America.”

Jared chuckled.

“Your uncle Jamie usually kens what he’s about,” he said. “Not that knowing it keeps him out o’ trouble.” He shifted, making himself more comfortable in his worn leather chair. “Had it not been for the Rising, he’d likely have stayed here wi’ me. Aye, well …” The old man sighed with regret and lifted his glass, examining the spirit. It was still nearly as pale as water—it hadn’t been casked above a few months—but had the slightly viscous look of a fine strong spirit, as if it might climb out of the glass if you took your eye off it.

“And if he had, I suppose I’d not be here myself,” Michael said dryly.

Jared glanced at him, surprised.

“Och! I didna mean to say ye were but a poor substitute for Jamie, lad.” He smiled crookedly, and his hooded eyes grew moist. “Not at all. Ye’ve been the best thing ever to come to me. You and dear wee Lillie, and …” He cleared his throat. “I … well, I canna say anything that will help, I ken that. But … it won’t always be like this.”

“Won’t it?” Michael said bleakly. “Aye, I’ll take your word for it.” A silence fell between them, broken only by the hissing and snap of the fire. The mention of Lillie was like an awl digging into his breastbone, and he took a deeper sip of the whisky to quell the ache. Maybe Jared was right to mention the drink to him. It helped, but not enough. And the help didn’t last. He was tired of waking to grief and headache both.

Shying away from thoughts of Lillie, his mind fastened on Uncle Jamie instead. He’d lost his wife, too, and from what Michael had seen of the aftermath, it had torn his soul in two. Then she’d come back to him, and he was a man transformed. But in between … he’d managed. He’d found a way to be.

Thinking of Auntie Claire gave him a slight feeling of comfort: as long as he didn’t think too much about what she’d told the family, who—or what—she was, and where she’d been while she was gone those twenty years. The brothers and sisters had talked among themselves about it afterward; Young Jamie and Kitty didn’t believe a word of it, Maggie and Janet weren’t sure—but Young Ian believed it, and that counted for a lot with Michael. And she’d looked at him—right at him—when she said what was going to happen in Paris. He felt the same small thrill of horror now, remembering. The Terror. That’s what it will be called, and that’s what it will be. People will be arrested for no cause and beheaded in the Place de la Concorde. The streets will run with blood, and no one—no one—will be safe.

He looked at his cousin; Jared was an old man, though still hale enough. Michael knew there was no way he could persuade Jared to leave Paris and his wine business. But it would be some time yet—if Auntie Claire was right. No need to think about it now. But she’d seemed so sure, like a seer, talking from a vantage point after everything had happened, from a safer time.