Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

Mercy’s eyes went round with horror and her lip quivered as she looked at the dog.

“But—but—he wouldn’t,” she said. But then she glanced at her father, doubt in her eyes. “You wouldn’t, would you, Papa?”

“But if you had promised God?” Esmé put in helpfully, looking up at Kenneth with her large blue eyes. Hal was enjoying the look on Kenneth’s face, but Eloise was going a bit red round the jowls, so he coughed—and with a distinct, exhilarating sense that he was driving a carriage over a cliff said, “But Jephthah didn’t meet his dog, did he? What did happen? Do remind me—been some time since I’ve read the Old Testament.” In fact, he’d never read it, but Esmé loved to read it and tell him the stories—with her own inimitable commentary.

Esmé had carefully not looked at him but turned the page with delicate fingers and cleared her throat.

“And Jephthah came to Mizpeh unto his house, and, behold, his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances: and she was his only child; beside her he had neither son nor daughter.

“And it came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and said, Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back.

“And she said unto him, My father, if thou hast opened thy mouth unto the Lord, do to me according to that which hath proceeded out of thy mouth; forasmuch as the Lord hath taken vengeance for thee of thine enemies, even of the children of Ammon.

“And she said unto her father, Let this thing be done for me: let me alone two months, that I may go up and down upon the mountains, and bewail my virginity, I and my fellows.

“And he said, Go. And he sent her away for two months: and she went with her companions, and bewailed her virginity upon the mountains.

“And it came to pass at the end of two months, that she returned unto her father, who did with her according to his vow which he had vowed: and she knew no man. And it was a custom in Israel that the daughters of Israel went yearly to lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite four days in a year.”



Then she’d laughed, closing the book.

“I don’t think I would have bewailed my virginity for long, me. I would have come home without it”—then she’d met his eyes, with a spark that had ignited his vitals—“and see whether my dear papa still considered me a suitable sacrifice.”

His eyes were closed; he was breathing hard and dimly aware that tears were leaking out between his lids.

“You bitch,” he whispered. “Em, you bitch!”

He breathed until the memory passed and the echo of her voice faded from his ear. When he opened his eyes, he found that his chin was resting in his hands, elbows on his knees, and that he was staring at the hearth rug. An expensive bit of carpet for such a use. Soft white wool, tufted, with the Grey family coat of arms in the center and an extravagantly worked “H” and “E” in black silk on either side. She’d had it made for him—a wedding present.

He’d given her a diamond pendant. And buried it with her and her child, a month ago.

He closed his eyes again. And breathed.



AFTER A TIME, he got up and wandered down the hall to the nook he’d taken over as his study. It was cramped as an eggshell, but he didn’t need much space—and the close confines seemed to help him think better, shutting out some of the outside world.

He plucked a quill from the jar and bit it absently, tasting the bitter tang of dried ink. He should cut a new one but couldn’t summon up the energy to find his penknife, and after all, what did it matter? John wouldn’t mind a few blots.

Paper…There was a half quire of the parchment sheets he’d used to reply to the expressions of sympathy about Esmé. They’d come in by the bushelful—unlike the spatter of embarrassed notes that had followed his father’s suicide three years before. He’d written the replies himself, in spite of his mother’s offer to help. He’d been filled with something like the electric fluid natural philosophers talked about, something that numbed him to any natural need like food or sleep, that filled his brain and body with a manic need to move, to do something—though God knew there was nothing more he could have done after killing Nathaniel Twelvetrees. Not that he hadn’t tried…

The paper felt gritty with dust; he didn’t let anyone touch his desk. He held up a sheet and blew at it, shook it a bit, and set it down, then dipped his quill.

J— he wrote, and stopped dead. What was there to say? I hope to God you’re not dead? Have you seen anyone strange asking questions? How are you finding Aberdeen? Other than cold, wet, dreary, and gray…

After twiddling the quill for a while, he gave up, wrote, Luck. –H, sanded the sheet, folded it, and, taking up the candle, dribbled smoke-stained wax onto the paper and stamped it firmly with his signet. A swan, flying, neck outstretched, across a full moon.

He was still sitting at his desk an hour later. There was progress: John’s letter sat there, squared to the corner of the desk, sealed and with the Armstrongs’ direction in Aberdeen neatly written—with a freshly cut pen. The quire of parchment had been shaken free of dust, tapped into alignment, and put away in a drawer. And he’d found the source of the dead-flower smell: a bunch of rotting carnations left in a pottery mug on the windowsill. He’d managed to open that window and throw them out and then had summoned a footman to take the mug away to be washed. He was exhausted.

He became aware of noises in the distance: the sound of the front door opening, voices. That was all right; Sylvester would take care of whoever it was.

To his surprise, the butler seemed to have been overcome by the intruder; there were raised voices and a determined step coming rapidly toward his sanctum.

“What the devil are you doing, Melton?” The door was flung open and Harry Quarry’s broad face glowered in at him.

“Writing letters,” Hal said, with what dignity he could summon. “What does it look like?”

Harry strode into the room, lit a taper from the fire, and touched it to the candlestick on the desk. Hal hadn’t noticed it growing dark, but it must be teatime, at least. His friend lifted the candlestick and examined him critically by its light.

“You don’t want to know what you look like,” said Harry, shaking his head. He put down the candle. “You didn’t recall that you were meant to be meeting with Washburn this afternoon, I take it.”

“Wash—oh, Jesus.” He’d risen halfway out of his chair at the name and now sank back, feeling hollow at mention of his solicitor.

“I’ve spent the last hour with him, after meeting with Anstruther and Josper—you remember, the adjutant from the Fourteenth?” He spoke with a strong note of sarcasm.