I was startled, but not truly surprised.
“Elspeth,” I said. I stepped back, feeling as though I did it in a dream.
“I had to come,” she said. She was white as a ghost and looked exactly as I felt—shattered.
“I know,” I said, automatically adding, “Come in.”
“You know?” she said, and her voice held both doubt and the horror of realizing that there was no doubt left.
I shut the door and turned away to go to my surgery, leaving her to follow as she liked.
Once we were both inside the surgery, I dropped the heavy quilt that still served me as a door, sheltering us from the night. Bluey was on her feet, just behind my knee, and was growling in a low, menacing sort of way. She knew Elspeth and normally would have gone to her for a friendly sniff and pat. Not tonight, Josephine, I thought, but said, “Leave off, dog. It’s all right.”
The hell it is was written all over Bluebell’s face, but she stopped growling and backed up slowly to the hearth rug, where she lay down, but kept her hackles raised and a deeply suspicious gaze fixed on Elspeth, who didn’t seem to notice.
I waved Elspeth to one of the two chairs. Without asking, I took down the bottle of JF Special and filled two cups to their rims. Elspeth accepted hers but didn’t drink immediately, though it was clear that she needed it. I didn’t hesitate to take my own dose.
“I’d thought I might—pray with you,” she said.
“Fine,” I said, flatly. “There’s nothing else we can do now, is there?”
I drank, hoping against hope that I was right and that she hadn’t come to tell me that her son had killed or captured my husband. But she hadn’t; I could see as much through the firelight that painted her face with the illusion of health. She’d come to me in fear, not pity. Her lean, weathered hands were both wrapped round her cup, and I thought that if she squeezed it much harder, the pewter would bend.
“It hasn’t happened yet?” I asked, and was surprised that I sounded almost casual.
“I don’t know.” At last she raised the cup to her lips, still holding it in both hands. When she lowered it, she looked a little less rattled. She sat silent for a long moment, studying my face. For once, I wasn’t bothered by the fact that I had a glass face; it might save explanations.
It did. She’d been shaken and pale when she came in. Now she was stirred, and a flush had risen in her sunken cheeks.
“How long has he known?” she asked. “Your husband.”
“About a week,” I said. “We found out by accident. I mean—none of your son’s associates betrayed him.” I wasn’t sure why I offered her this scrap of charity; I supposed there wasn’t anything left between us now but the memory of kindness.
She nodded slowly, and looked down into the smoky amber of the whisky. I was surprised to realize that she, too, had the sort of face that didn’t hide its owner’s thoughts, and the realization restored a small part of my feelings for her.
“We know everything,” I said, quite gently. “And Jamie knows that the captain doesn’t mean him immediate harm. He won’t kill your son.”
Unless he has to.
She looked up at me, a nerve twitching the corner of her mouth.
“Unless he has to? Let me offer you the same assurance, Mrs. Fraser.”
“Claire,” I said. “Please.” The surgery smelled of hickory smoke and healing herbs. “Do you know any good prayers suitable to the occasion?”
WEAPONS WERE FORBIDDEN in Lodge, both in symbol of the members’ Masonic ideals and more pragmatically to increase the chances of those ideals being upheld, at least for the hourly meeting. Nonetheless, Jamie had come in midafternoon to place a loaded pistol under a stone near the door, and he had cartridges and balls in his sporran and Claire’s best knife sheathed and tucked into the small of his back, the hilt hidden by his coat and the tip of it tickling the crack of his arse.
He didn’t often wear his belted plaid to Lodge but was glad he’d taken the trouble tonight; it would keep him warm if he was taken prisoner and obliged to spend the night tied to a tree or locked up in someone’s root cellar. And he had a sgian dubh in his belt in front, concealed by his Masonic apron. Just in case.
“Ciamar a tha thu, a Mhaighister.” Hiram Crombie looked just as usual—dour as a plate of pickled cabbage—and Jamie found that a comfort. Dissimulation was not one of Hiram’s gifts, and if he’d known anything was afoot, he’d likely not have come tonight.