Read Online Outlander Novella [01] The Space Between by Diana Gabaldon - Free Book Online Page A

side. “Did I never tell ye not to mix wine wi’ rum?”
    “Not above two hundred times, no.” Jared was moving, and Michael followed him perforce down the narrow aisle, the casks in their serried ranks rising high above on either side.
    “Rum’s a demon. But whisky’s a virtuous dram,” Jared said, pausing by a rack of small blackened casks. “So long as it’s a good make, it’ll never turn on ye. Speakin’ of which”—he tapped the end of one cask, which gave off the resonant deep
thunk
of a full barrel—“what’s this? It came up from the docks this morning.”
    “Oh, aye.” Michael stifled a belch and smiled painfully. “That, cousin, is the Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray memorial
uisge baugh
. My da and Uncle Jamie made it during the winter. They thought ye might like a wee cask for your personal use.”
    Jared’s brows rose and he gave Michael a swift sideways glance. Then he turned back to examine the cask, bending close to sniff at the seam between the lid and staves.
    “I’ve tasted it,” Michael assured him. “I dinna think it will poison ye. But ye should maybe let it age a few years.”
    Jared made a rude noise in his throat, and his hand curved gently over the swell of the staves. He stood thus for a moment as though in benediction, then turned suddenly and took Michael into his arms. His own breathing was hoarse, congested with sorrow. He was years older than Da and Uncle Jamie but had known the two of them all their lives.
    “I’m sorry for your faither, lad,” he said after a moment, and let go, patting Michael on the shoulder. He looked at the cask and sniffed deeply. “I can tell it will be fine.” He paused, breathing slowly, then nodded once, as though making up his mind to something.
    “I’ve a thing in mind,
a charaid
. I’d been thinking, since ye went to Scotland—and now that we’ve a kinswoman in the church, so to speak … Come back to the office with me, and I’lltell ye.”
    * * *
    It was chilly in the street, but the goldsmith’s back room was cozy as a womb, with a porcelain stove throbbing with heat and woven wool hangings on the walls. Rakoczy hastily unwound the comforter about his neck. It didn’t do to sweat indoors; the sweat chilled the instant one went out again, and next thing you knew, it would be
la grippe
at the best, pleurisy or pneumonia at the worst.
    Rosenwald himself was comfortable in shirt and waistcoat, without even a wig, only a plum-colored turban to keep his polled scalp warm. The goldsmith’s stubby fingers traced the curves of the octofoil salver, turned it over—and stopped dead. Rakoczy felt the tingle of warning at the base of his spine and deliberately relaxed himself, affecting a nonchalant self-confidence.
    “Where did you get this, monsieur, if I may ask?” Rosenwald looked up at him, but there was no accusation in the goldsmith’s aged face—only a wary excitement.
    “It was an inheritance,” Rakoczy said, glowing with earnest innocence. “An elderly aunt left it—and a few other pieces—to me. Is it worth anything more than the value of the silver?”
    The goldsmith opened his mouth, then shut it, glancing at Rakoczy. Was he honest? Rakoczy wondered with interest.
He’s already told me it’s something special. Will he tell me why, in hopes of getting other pieces? Or lie, to get this one cheap?
Rosenwald had a good reputation, but he was a Jew.
    “Paul de Lamerie,” Rosenwald said reverently, his index finger tracing the hallmark. “This was made by Paul de Lamerie.”
    A shock ran up Rakoczy’s backbone.
Merde!
He’d brought the wrong one!
    “Really?” he said, striving for simple curiosity. “Does that mean something?”
    It means I’m a fool
, he thought, and wondered whether to snatch the thing back and leave instantly. The goldsmith had carried it away, though, to look at it more closely under the lamp.
    “De Lamerie was one of the very best goldsmiths ever to work in London—perhaps in the