Dragonfly In Amber

Roger closed one eye and looked at her with the other. “Either that’s a very odd non sequitur,” he said, “or I’ve drunk a good deal more than I thought.” In fact, he and Claire had accounted very satisfactorily for the Muir Breame, though Bria

Claire laughed, overhearing the exchange, and got up to hand Bria

“Thanks.” Bria

“Hearts of oak are our men,” Roger intoned, “stainless steel are their bums. It builds the national character.”

“In the case of Scots, I expect it’s hereditary nerve-deadening,” Claire added. “The sort of men who could ride horse-back wearing a kilt have bottoms like saddle leather.”

Bria

“Actually, it wasn’t bad,” Claire said, surprisingly. “Mullein leaves are really very nice; quite as good as two-ply bathroom tissue. And in the winter or indoors, it was usually a bit of damp rag; not very sanitary, but comfortable enough.”

Roger and Bria

“Er… read it in a book,” she said, and blushed amazingly.

As Bria

“It was awfully nice of you to entertain us so grandly,” she said, smiling at Roger. The momentary discomposure had vanished, replaced by her usual poise. “And remarkably kind of you to have found out about those names for me.”

“My pleasure entirely,” Roger assured her. “It’s made a nice change from cobwebs and mothballs. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve found out anything else about your Jacobites.”

“Thank you.” Claire hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice. “Actually, since Bree’s gone for the moment… there’s something I wanted to ask you, in private.”

Roger cleared his throat and straightened the tie he had do

“Ask away,” he said, feeling cheerfully expansive with the success of the tea party. “I’m completely at your service.”

“You were asking Bree if she’d go with you to do field research. I wanted to ask you… there’s a place I’d rather you didn’t take her, if you don’t mind.”

Alarm bells went off at once in Roger’s head. Was he going to find out what the secret was about Broch Tuarach?

“The circle of standing stones – they call it Craigh na Dun.” Claire’s face was earnest as she leaned slightly closer. “There’s an important reason, or I wouldn’t ask. I want to take Bria

Thoughts were chasing themselves through Roger’s mind. So it hadn’t been Broch Tuarach she wanted to keep the girl away from, after all! One mystery was explained, only to deepen another.

“If you like,” he said at last. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” She touched his arm once, lightly, and turned to go. Seeing her silhouetted against the light, he was suddenly reminded of something. Perhaps it wasn’t the moment to ask, but it couldn’t do any harm.

“Oh, Dr. Randall – Claire?”

Claire turned back to face him. With the distractions of Bria

“In all the records that I found dealing with these men,” Roger said, choosing his words carefully, “there was a mention of a Captain James Fraser, who seems to have been their leader. But he wasn’t on your list. I only wondered; did you know about him?”

She stood stock-still for a moment, reminding him of the way she had behaved upon her arrival that afternoon. But after a moment, she shook herself slightly, and answered with apparent equanimity.

“Yes, I knew about him.” She spoke calmly, but all the color had left her face, and Roger could see a small pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat.

“I didn’t put him on the list because I already knew what happened to him. Jamie Fraser died at Culloden.”

“Are you sure?”

As though anxious to leave, Claire scooped up her handbag, and glanced down the hall toward the bathroom, where the rattling of the ancient knob indicated Bria

“Yes,” she said, not looking back. “I’m quite sure. Oh, Mr. Wakefield… Roger, I mean.” She swung back now, fixing those oddly colored eyes on him. In this light, they looked almost yellow, he thought; the eyes of a big cat, a leopard’s eyes.

“Please,” she said, “don’t mention Jamie Fraser to my daughter.”

It was late, and he should have been abed long since, but Roger found himself unable to sleep. Whether from the aggravations of Fiona, the puzzling contradictions of Claire Randall, or from exaltation over the prospect of doing field research with Bria

Fiona’s light down the hall was still on, but he tiptoed down the stair, not to disturb her. Then, snapping on the study light, he stood for a moment, contemplating the magnitude of the task before him.

The wall exemplified the Reverend Wakefield’s mind. Completely covering one side of the study, it was an expanse of corkboard measuring nearly twenty feet by twelve. Virtually none of the original cork was visible under the layers upon layers of papers, notes, photographs, mimeographed sheets, bills, receipts, bird feathers, torn-off corners of envelopes containing interesting postage stamps, address labels, key rings, postcards, rubber bands, and other impedimenta, all tacked up or attached by bits of string.

The trivia lay twelve layers deep in spots, yet the Reverend had always been able to set his hand unerringly on the bit he wanted. Roger thought that the wall must have been organized according to some underlying principle so subtle that not even American NASA scientists could discern it.

Roger viewed the wall dubiously. There was no logical point at which to start. He reached tentatively for a mimeographed list of General Assembly meeting dates sent out by the bishop’s office, but was distracted by the sight underneath of a crayoned dragon, complete with artistic puffs of smoke from the flaring nostrils, and green flames shooting from the gaping mouth.

ROGER was written in large, straggling capitals at the bottom of the sheet. He vaguely remembered explaining that the dragon breathed green fire because it ate nothing but spinach. He let the General Assembly list fall back into place, and turned away from the wall. He could tackle that lot later.

The desk, an enormous oak rolltop with at least forty stuffed-to-bursting pigeonholes, seemed like pie by comparison. With a sigh, Roger pulled up the battered office chair and sat down to make sense of all the documents the Reverend thought worth keeping.

One stack of bills yet to be paid. Another of official-looking documents: automobile titles, surveyor’s reports, building-inspection certificates. Another for historical notes and records. Another for family keepsakes. Another – by far the largest – for rubbish.

Deep in his task, he didn’t hear the door open behind him, or the approaching footsteps. Suddenly a large teapot appeared on the desk next to him.