Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

The woman rose with a slow rustling of coarse cloth. She wasn’t veiled, which surprised Minnie—her hair had been roughly cropped but had grown out somewhat; it curved just under her ears, cupping the angles of her jaw. Thick, smooth, the color of wheat in a summer field.

Mine, Minnie thought, with a thump of the heart, and stared into the woman’s eyes. Mrs. Simpson had been right. Mine, too…

“Sister?” she said tentatively, in French. “Soeur Emmanuelle?”

The woman said nothing, but her eyes had gone quite round. They traveled down Minnie’s body and returned to her face, intent. She turned her head and addressed a crucifix that hung on the plastered wall behind her.

“Est-ce une vision, Seigneur?” she said, in the rusty voice of one who seldom speaks aloud. “Is this a vision, Lord?” She sounded uncertain, perhaps frightened. Minnie didn’t hear a reply from Christ on the cross, but Sister Emmanuelle apparently did. She turned back to face Minnie, drawing herself upright, and crossed herself.

“Erm…Comment ca va?” Minnie asked, for lack of anything better. Sister Emmanuelle blinked but didn’t reply. Perhaps that wasn’t the right sort of thing for a vision to say.

“I hope I see you well,” Minnie added politely.

Mother, she thought suddenly, with a pang as she saw the grubby hem of the rough habit, the streaks of food on breast and skirt. Oh, Mother…

There was a book on the prie-dieu. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she walked past her mother to look at it but glanced up and saw the crucifix—it was a rich one, she saw, polished ebony with mother-of-pearl edging. The corpus had been made by another, truer hand, though—the body of Christ glowed in the candlelight, contorted in the grip of a knotted chunk of some dark wood, rubbed smooth. His face was turned away, invisible, but the thorns were carved sharp and vivid, sharp enough to prick your finger if you touched them. The outflung arms were only half freed from the wood, but the sense of entrapment, of unendurable agony, struck Minnie like a blow to the chest.

“Mon Dieu,” she said aloud. She said it in shock, rather than by way of prayer, but vaguely heard the woman behind her let go a held breath. She heard the rustle of cloth and straw—she hadn’t noticed when she came in, but the floor was covered in clean straw—and forced herself to stand quite still, heart beating in her ears, though she longed to turn and embrace Sister Emmanuelle, seize and carry her, drag her, bring her out into the world. After a long moment during which she could hear the woman’s breathing, she felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned round slowly.

Her mother was close now, close enough that Minnie could smell her. Surprisingly, she smelled sweet—a tang of sweat, the smell of clothes worn too long without washing, but incense perfumed her hair, the cloth of her robe, and the hand that touched Minnie’s cheek. Her flesh smelled warm and…pure.

“Are you an angel?” Emmanuelle asked suddenly. Doubt and fear had come into her face again, and she edged back a step. “Or a demon?”

So close, Minnie could see the lines in her face—crow’s-feet, the gentle crease from nose to mouth—but the face itself was a blurred mirror of the one she saw in her looking glass. She took a breath and stepped closer.

“I’m an angel,” she said firmly. She’d spoken in English, without thinking, and Emmanuelle’s eyes flew wide in shock. She took an awkward step backward and sank to her knees.

“Oh, no! Don’t do that!” Minnie cried, distressed. “I didn’t mean it—I mean, Je ne veux pas…” She stooped to raise her mother to her feet, but Emmanuelle had clapped her hands to her eyes and wouldn’t be moved, only swaying to and fro, making small whimpering noises.

Then Minnie realized that they weren’t just noises. Her mother was whispering, “RaphaelRaphaelRaphael,” over and over. Panicked, she seized her mother’s wrists and pulled her hands away from her face.

“Stop! Arrêtez! Please stop!”

Her mother stopped, gasping for breath, looking up at her. “Est-ce qu’il vous a envoyé? Raphael L’Archange? êtes-vous l’un des siens?” “Did he send you? Raphael the archangel? Are you his?” Her voice quivered, but she had calmed a little; she wasn’t struggling, and Minnie cautiously let go.

“No, no one sent me,” she said, as soothingly as possible. “I came on my own, to visit you.” Groping for something else to say, she blurted, “Je m’appelle Minerve.”

Emmanuelle’s face went quite blank.

What is it? Does she know that name? Mrs. Simpson hadn’t said whether her mother might know her name.

And then she realized that the bells of the distant church were ringing. Perhaps her mother hadn’t even heard her speak.

Helpless, she watched as Emmanuelle got laboriously to her feet, stepping on the hem of her robe and staggering. Minnie made to take the woman’s arm, but Emmanuelle regained her balance and went to the prie-dieu, quickly but with no sense of panic. Her face was composed, all her attention focused on the book lying on the prie-dieu.

Seeing it now, Minnie realized at last what her aunt had meant by “None” and “hours.” The book was a small, elegant volume with an aged green cover, set with tiny rounded cabochon jewels. And as Emmanuelle opened it, Minnie saw inside the glow of beautiful paintings, pictures of angels speaking to the Virgin, to a man with a crown, to a crowd of people, to Christ on the cross…

It was a Book of Hours, a devotional volume meant for rich lay people, made during the last age, with the psalms and prayers intended to be said during the monastic hours of worship: Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline. None was the ninth hour—the prayer said at three o’clock in the afternoon.

Emmanuelle’s head was bent over the open book, and she was praying aloud, her voice soft but audible. Minnie hesitated, not sure whether she should leave…but no. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her mother—the more so as the woman probably wouldn’t notice her trying to take her leave. Instead, she came quietly to the prie-dieu and knelt down beside Emmanuelle, in the straw.

She knelt close enough that the pink linen of her gown nearly brushed the white habit. It wasn’t cold in the shed, not with the brazier going, but nonetheless she could feel her mother’s warmth and, for just a moment, surrendered to the vain hope she had brought here—of being seen, accepted, wrapped in her mother’s love.

She closed her eyes against the starting tears and listened to Emmanuelle’s voice, soft and husky but sure. Minnie swallowed and opened her eyes, making an effort to follow the Latin.

“Deus, in adjutorium meum intende; Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina…” “O God, come to my assistance; O Lord, make haste to help me…”