Read Online Dragonfly in Amber by Diana Gabaldon - Free Book Online
Authors: Diana Gabaldon
Tags: Historical
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pointing upward at a set of mounted stag's antlers, poking their tines inquisitively through an absolute forest of bagpipe drones.
"The antlers? Oh, yes. I don't imagine plastics technology's got quite that good, yet," I replied. "Besides, look at the price. Anything over one hundred pounds is very likely real."
Brianna's eyes widened, and she lowered her head.
"Jeez. I think I'll get Jane a skirt-length of tartan instead."
"Good-quality wool tartan won't cost a lot less," I said dryly, "but it will be a lot easier to get home on the plane. Let's go across to the Kiltmaker store, then; they'll have the best quality."
It had begun to rain—of course—and we tucked our paper-wrapped parcels underneath the raincoats I had prudently insisted we wear. Brianna snorted with sudden amusement.
"You get so used to calling these things ‘macs,' you forget what they're really called. I'm not surprised it was a Scot that invented them," she added, looking up at the water sheeting down from the edge of the canopy overhead. "Does it rain all the time here?"
"Pretty much," I said, peering up and down through the downpour for oncoming traffic. "Though I've always supposed Mr. Macintosh was rather a lily-livered sort; most Scots I've known were relatively impervious to rain." I bit my lip suddenly, but Brianna hadn't noticed the slip, minor as it was; she was eyeing the ankle-deep freshet running down the gutter.
"Tell you what, Mama, maybe we'd better go up to the crossing. We aren't going to make it jaywalking here."
Nodding assent, I followed her up the street, heart pounding with adrenaline under the clammy cover of my mac. When are you going to get it over with? my mind demanded. You can't keep watching your words and swallowing half the things you start to say. Why not just tell her?
Not yet, I thought to myself. I'm not a coward—or if I am, it doesn't matter. But it isn't quite time yet. I wanted her to see Scotland first. Not this lot—as we passed a shop offering a display of tartan baby booties—but the countryside. And Culloden. Most of all, I want to be able to tell her the end of the story. And for that, I need Roger Wakefield.
As though my thought had summoned it into being, the bright orange top of a battered Morris caught my eye in the parking lot to the left, glowing like a traffic beacon in the foggy wet.
Brianna had seen it too—there couldn't be many cars in Inverness of that specific color and disreputability—and pointed at it, saying, "Look, Mama, isn't that Roger Wakefield's car?"
"Yes, I think so," I said. There was a cafe on the right, from which the scent of fresh scones, stale toast, and coffee drifted to mingle with the fresh, rainy air. I grabbed Brianna's arm and pulled her into the cafe.
"I think I'm hungry after all," I explained. "Let's have some cocoa and biscuits."
Still child enough to be tempted by chocolate, and young enough to be willing to eat at any time, Bree offered no argument, but sat down at once and picked up the tea-stained sheet of green paper that served as the daily menu.
I didn't particularly want cocoa, but I did want a moment or two to think. There was a large sign on the concrete wall of the parking lot across the street, reading PARKING FOR SCOTRAIL ONLY, followed by various lowercase threats as to what would happen to the vehicles of people who parked there without being train riders. Unless Roger knew something about the forces of law and order in Inverness that I didn't know, chances were that he had taken a train. Granted that he could have gone anywhere, either Edinburgh or London seemed most likely. He was taking this research project seriously, dear lad.
We had come up on the train from Edinburgh ourselves. I tried to remember what the schedule was like, with no particular success.
"I wonder if Roger will be back on the evening train?" Bree said, echoing my thoughts with an uncanniness that made me choke on my cocoa. The fact that she wondered about
"The antlers? Oh, yes. I don't imagine plastics technology's got quite that good, yet," I replied. "Besides, look at the price. Anything over one hundred pounds is very likely real."
Brianna's eyes widened, and she lowered her head.
"Jeez. I think I'll get Jane a skirt-length of tartan instead."
"Good-quality wool tartan won't cost a lot less," I said dryly, "but it will be a lot easier to get home on the plane. Let's go across to the Kiltmaker store, then; they'll have the best quality."
It had begun to rain—of course—and we tucked our paper-wrapped parcels underneath the raincoats I had prudently insisted we wear. Brianna snorted with sudden amusement.
"You get so used to calling these things ‘macs,' you forget what they're really called. I'm not surprised it was a Scot that invented them," she added, looking up at the water sheeting down from the edge of the canopy overhead. "Does it rain all the time here?"
"Pretty much," I said, peering up and down through the downpour for oncoming traffic. "Though I've always supposed Mr. Macintosh was rather a lily-livered sort; most Scots I've known were relatively impervious to rain." I bit my lip suddenly, but Brianna hadn't noticed the slip, minor as it was; she was eyeing the ankle-deep freshet running down the gutter.
"Tell you what, Mama, maybe we'd better go up to the crossing. We aren't going to make it jaywalking here."
Nodding assent, I followed her up the street, heart pounding with adrenaline under the clammy cover of my mac. When are you going to get it over with? my mind demanded. You can't keep watching your words and swallowing half the things you start to say. Why not just tell her?
Not yet, I thought to myself. I'm not a coward—or if I am, it doesn't matter. But it isn't quite time yet. I wanted her to see Scotland first. Not this lot—as we passed a shop offering a display of tartan baby booties—but the countryside. And Culloden. Most of all, I want to be able to tell her the end of the story. And for that, I need Roger Wakefield.
As though my thought had summoned it into being, the bright orange top of a battered Morris caught my eye in the parking lot to the left, glowing like a traffic beacon in the foggy wet.
Brianna had seen it too—there couldn't be many cars in Inverness of that specific color and disreputability—and pointed at it, saying, "Look, Mama, isn't that Roger Wakefield's car?"
"Yes, I think so," I said. There was a cafe on the right, from which the scent of fresh scones, stale toast, and coffee drifted to mingle with the fresh, rainy air. I grabbed Brianna's arm and pulled her into the cafe.
"I think I'm hungry after all," I explained. "Let's have some cocoa and biscuits."
Still child enough to be tempted by chocolate, and young enough to be willing to eat at any time, Bree offered no argument, but sat down at once and picked up the tea-stained sheet of green paper that served as the daily menu.
I didn't particularly want cocoa, but I did want a moment or two to think. There was a large sign on the concrete wall of the parking lot across the street, reading PARKING FOR SCOTRAIL ONLY, followed by various lowercase threats as to what would happen to the vehicles of people who parked there without being train riders. Unless Roger knew something about the forces of law and order in Inverness that I didn't know, chances were that he had taken a train. Granted that he could have gone anywhere, either Edinburgh or London seemed most likely. He was taking this research project seriously, dear lad.
We had come up on the train from Edinburgh ourselves. I tried to remember what the schedule was like, with no particular success.
"I wonder if Roger will be back on the evening train?" Bree said, echoing my thoughts with an uncanniness that made me choke on my cocoa. The fact that she wondered about
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