The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(32)

This side of the room was scarcely less alarming, but at least it didn’t look as though any of the big colored glass balls and jars and tubes could move on their own. It was where the worst smells were coming from, though: something that smelled like burnt hair and treacle, and something else very sharp that curled the hairs in your nose, like it did when someone dug out a jakes for the saltpeter. But there was a window near the long table where all this sinister stuff was laid out, and she went to this at once.

The big river—the Seine, Michael had called it—was right there, and the sight of boats and people made her feel a bit steadier. She put a hand on the table to lean closer but set it on something sticky and jerked it back. She swallowed and leaned in more gingerly. The window was barred on the inside. Glancing round, she saw that all the others were, too.

What in the name of the Blessed Virgin did that man expect would try to get in? Gooseflesh raced right up the curve of her spine and spread down her arms, her imagination instantly conjuring a vision of flying demons hovering over the street in the night, beating leathery wings against the window. Or—dear Lord in heaven!—was it to keep the furniture in?

There was a fairly normal-looking stool; she sank down on this and, closing her eyes, prayed with great fervor. After a bit, she remembered to breathe, and after a further bit, began to be able to think again, shuddering only occasionally.

He hadn’t threatened her. Nor had he hurt her, really, just put a hand over her mouth and his other arm round her body and pulled her along, then boosted her into his coach with a shockingly familiar hand under her bottom, though it hadn’t been done with any sense that he was wanting to interfere with her.

In the coach, he’d introduced himself, apologized briefly for the inconvenience—inconvenience? The cheek of him—and then had grasped both her hands in his, staring intently into her face as he clasped them tighter and tighter. He’d raised her hands to his face, so close she’d thought he meant to smell them or kiss them, but then had let go, his brow deeply furrowed.

He’d ignored all her questions and her insistence upon being returned to the convent. In fact, he almost seemed to forget she was there, leaving her huddled in the corner of the seat while he thought intently about something, lips pursing in and out. And then he had lugged her up here, told her briefly that she wouldn’t be hurt, added the bit about being a sorcerer in a very offhand sort of a way, and locked her in!

She was terrified, and indignant, too. But now that she’d calmed down a wee bit, she thought that she wasn’t really afraid of him, and that seemed odd. Surely she should be?

But she’d believed him when he said he meant her no harm. He hadn’t threatened her or tried to frighten her. But if that was true … what did he want of her?

He likely wants to know what ye meant by rushing up to him in the market and telling him not to do it, her common sense—lamentably absent to this point—remarked.

“Oh,” she said aloud. That made some sense. Naturally, he’d be curious about that.

She got up again and explored the room, thinking. She couldn’t tell him any more than she had, though; that was the thing. Would he believe her, about the voices? Even if so, he’d try to find out more, and there wasn’t any more to find out. What then?

Don’t wait about to see, advised her common sense.

Having already come to this conclusion, she didn’t bother replying. She’d found a heavy marble mortar and pestle; that might do. Wrapping the mortar in her apron, she went to the window that overlooked the street. She’d break the glass, then shriek ’til she got someone’s attention. Even so high up, she thought, someone would hear. Pity it was a quiet street. But—

She stiffened like a bird dog. A coach was stopped outside one of the houses opposite, and Michael Murray was getting out of it! He was just putting on his hat—no mistaking that flaming red hair.

“Michael!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. But he didn’t look up; the sound wouldn’t pierce glass. She swung the cloth-wrapped mortar at the window, but it bounced off the bars with a ringing clang! She took a deep breath and a better aim; this time, she hit one of the panes and cracked it. Encouraged, she tried again, with all the strength of muscular arms and shoulders, and was rewarded with a small crash, a shower of glass, and a rush of mud-scented air from the river.

“Michael!” But he had disappeared. A servant’s face showed briefly in the open door of the house opposite, then vanished as the door closed. Through a red haze of frustration, she noticed the swag of black crepe hanging from the knob. Who was dead?

* * *

Charles’s wife, Eulalie, was in the small parlor, surrounded by a huddle of women. All of them turned to see who had come, many of them lifting their handkerchiefs automatically in preparation for a fresh outbreak of tears. All of them blinked at Michael, then turned to Eulalie, as though for an explanation.

Eulalie’s eyes were red but dry. She looked as though she had been dried in an oven, all the moisture and color sucked out of her, her face paper-white and drawn tight over her bones. She, too, looked at Michael, but without much interest. He thought she was too much shocked for anything to matter much. He knew how she felt.

“Monsieur Murray,” she said tonelessly, as he bowed over her hand. “How kind of you to call.”

“I … offer my condolences, madame, mine and my cousin’s. I hadn’t … heard. Of your grievous loss.” He was almost stuttering, trying to grasp the reality of the situation. What the devil had happened to Charles?