The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(29)

“I wasna expecting the Spanish Inquisition,” she said, a little testily. “Does it matter?”

His mouth twitched.

“Well, I dinna ken, now, do I?” he pointed out. “It might give a clue as to who’s talkin’ to ye, might it not? Or do ye already know that?”

“No, I don’t,” she admitted, and felt a sudden lessening of tension. “I—I was worrit—a bit—that it might be demons. But it doesna really … well, they dinna tell me wicked sorts of things. Just … more like when something’s going to happen to a person. And sometimes it’s no a good thing—but sometimes it is. There was wee Annie MacLaren, her wi’ a big belly by the third month, and by six lookin’ as though she’d burst, and she was frightened she was goin’ to die come her time, like her ain mother did, wi’ a babe too big to be born—I mean, really frightened, not just like all women are. And I met her by St. Ninian’s Spring one day, and one of the voices said to me, ‘Tell her it will be as God wills and she will be delivered safely of a son.’ ”

“And ye did tell her that?”

“Yes. I didna say how I knew, but I must have sounded like I did know, because her poor face got bright all of a sudden, and she grabbed on to my hands and said, ‘Oh! From your lips to God’s ear!’ ”

“And was she safely delivered of a son?”

“Aye—and a daughter, too.” Joan smiled, remembering the glow on Annie’s face.

Michael glanced aside at Sister Eustacia, who was bidding farewell to the new postulant’s family. The girl was white-faced and tears ran down her cheeks, but she clung to Sister Eustacia’s sleeve as though it were a lifeline.

“I see,” he said slowly, and looked back at Joan. “Is that why—is it the voices told ye to be a nun, then?”

She blinked, surprised by his apparent acceptance of what she’d told him but more so by the question.

“Well … no. They never did. Ye’d think they would have, wouldn’t ye?”

He smiled a little.

“Maybe so.” He coughed, then looked up, a little shyly. “It’s no my business, but what did make ye want to be a nun?”

She hesitated, but why not? She’d already told him the hardest bit.

“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.