Books that were used had an open, interested feel to them, even if closed and neatly lined up on a shelf in strict order with their fellows. You felt as though the book took as much interest in you as you did in it and was willing to help when you reached for it.
That Cherry Bounce must be good stuff.
Hell was full of clocks, he was sure of it. There was no torment, after all, that could not be exacerbated by a contemplation of time passing. The large case clock at the end of the corridor had a particularly penetrating tick-tock, audiable above and through all the noises of the house. It seemed to Lord John Grey to echo his own heartbeats, each one a step on the road towards death.
Frank made a face; an Englishman to the bone, he would rather lap water out of the toilet than drink tea made from teabags. The Lipton’s had been left by Mrs. Grossman, the weekly cleaning woman, who thought tea made from loose leaves messy and disgusting.
Movement at the door of the cabin, and a small figure that I recognized as Amy Higgins appeared. The tall woman pulled off her hat and waved it, her long red hair streaming out like a banner in the wind. “Hello, the house!” she called, laughing. Then I was flying down the hill, with Jamie just before me, arms flung wide, the two of us flying together on that same wind.
Jamie was real, alright, more real than anything had ever been to me, even Frank and my life in 1945. Jamie, tender lover and perfidious blackguard.
She said if ever I saw you again, I was to tell you two things, just as she told them to me. The first was, “I think it is possible, but I do not know.” And the second – the second was just numbers. She made me say them over, to be sure I had them right, for I was to tell them to you in a certain order. The numbers were one, nine, six, and seven.
I was in the heart of chaos, and no power of mind or body was of use against it.
I have yearned always,” he said softly, “for love given and returned; have spent my life in the attempt to give my love to those who were not worthy of it. Allow me this: to give my life for the sake of one who is.
Then open your legs for me, there’s a good lass no, a bit wider, aye?” He.
Aye, verra good. Now then, if ye’ll just put your hands above your head and seize the bedstead –.
Like forgiveness, it was not a thing once learned and then comfortably put aside but a matter of constant practice – to accept the notion of one’s own mortality, and yet live fully, was a paradox worthy of Socrates.
The words were before him, and yet I thought he wasn’t reading them from the paper, but from the pages of his memory, from the open book of his heart.
Go down,” she said, “and tell them the MacKenzies are here.
It was a hound of some sort, black and disproportionately long-bodied, with lets so stumpy that they appeared to have been amputated. With large, liquid eyes and a sturdy long tail in constant motion, it resembled nothing so much as and exceedingly amiable sausage.
Lord, that she might be safe, he prayed. She and the child.
I had no need to ask or to wonder whether he would keep his word. He had freed me once from Wentworth, because he had given his word to do so. His word, once given, was his bond. Jack Randall was a gentleman.
Ye ken that, don’t ye? That they can only be what they are because you and I are what we are?
Please,” she said, “don’t mention Jamie Fraser to my daughter.
Stephan’s hand left his breast, and reached out. Grey took it, and felt love flow between them. He thought that heart and body must be entirely melted – if only for that moment. Then they parted, each drawing back, each seeing the flash of desolation in the other’s face, both smiling ruefully to see it.