Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling and bowing to the officer. “Isn’t it pleasant in here, after all that crush?”


“Crush?” he said, looking faintly puzzled, and then his eyes cleared, focusing on her for the first time, and she realized that he hadn’t actually seen her until she spoke to him.

“In the orchid house,” she said, nodding toward the doorway he’d just come through. “I thought perhaps you’d come in here as I did, for refuge from the Turkish bath.”

He was in fact sweating visibly in his heavy uniform, a bead of perspiration rolling down his temple. He wore his own hair—dark, she saw, in spite of the remnants of rice powder clinging to it. He seemed to realize that he’d been socially remiss, for he made her a deep bow, hand to his heart.

“Your servant, ma’am. I beg your pardon; I was…” Straightening, he trailed off with a vague gesture at the plants around them. “It is cooler here, is it not?”

Mr. Bloomer was still visible, near the door leading to the orchid house. He’d stopped, to her surprise, and she was somewhat displeased to realize that he was listening to her conversation—insipid as it was. She narrowed her eyes at him; he saw, and one corner of his long mouth turned up.

She moved closer to the soldier and touched his arm. He stiffened slightly, but there was no sign of repulsion on his face—quite the opposite, which was reassuring—and she said chattily, “Do you know what any of these plants are? Beyond orchids and roses, I’m afraid I’m a complete ignoramus.”

“I know…some of them,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I actually came in here to see a particular flower that His Highness recommended to me just now.”

“Oh, indeed?” she said, impressed. Her recollections of the frog in the ocher coat were undergoing a rapid readjustment, and she felt slightly faint at the thought that she’d been that close to the Prince of Wales. “Er…which flower was that, do you mind telling me?”

“Not at all. Pray let me show it to you. If I can find it.” He smiled quite unexpectedly, bowed again, and gave her his arm, which she took with a small thrill, turning her back on the distant Mr. Bloomer.

“Go engage His Grace…” That’s what he’d said: “His Grace.” It had been a long time since she’d lived in London, and she’d rarely had occasion to use English titles, but she was almost sure that you said “Your Grace” only to a duke.

She stole a quick sideways look at him; he wasn’t tall but had a good six inches on her. Young, though…She’d always thought of dukes (when she thought of them at all) as gouty old men with paunches and dewlaps. This one couldn’t be more than five-and-twenty. He was slender, though he still radiated that rooster-like fierceness, and he had a very striking face, but there were deep shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks had lines and hollows that made him seem older than she thought he probably was.

She felt suddenly sorry for him, and her hand squeezed his arm, quite without her meaning to do it.

He glanced down at her, surprised, and she snatched her hand back, diving into her pocket for a handkerchief that she pressed to her lips, feigning a coughing fit.

“Are you all right, madam?” he asked, concerned. “Shall I fetch you—” He turned to look toward the door that led back through the line of glasshouses, then turned back, courteously straight-faced. “I fear that were I to go and fetch you an ice, you’d be dead long before I returned. Shall I thump you on the back instead?”

“You shall not,” she managed to say, and giving one or two small, ladylike hacks, dabbed her lips with the handkerchief and tucked it away. “Thank you, anyway.”

“Not at all.” He bowed but didn’t offer her his arm again, instead nodding her to precede him toward a low table filled with an assortment of beautiful chinoiserie. One more amazement, she thought, seeing the array of delicate blue and white and gilded porcelain. Any one of these delicately painted bowls would cost a fortune, and here they were, filled with dirt, and used to display quite unremarkable flowers.

“These?” she said, turning to look at His Grace—ought she to ask his name? Offer hers?

“Yes,” he said, though his voice now seemed hesitant, and she saw him very briefly clench his fists before advancing to the edge of the table. “They were brought from China—very…very rare.”

She glanced at him, surprised at the catch in his voice.

“What are they, do you know?”

“They have a Chinese name…I don’t recall it. I know a botanist, a Swedish fellow…he calls them chrysanthemum. Chrystos—gold, that is—and anth, anthemon. Means…flower.”

She saw his throat bob above the edge of his leather stock as he swallowed and noticed with alarm that he was very pale.

“Sir?” she said, reaching tentatively for his arm. “Are you quite—are you well?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, but his breath was coming fast, and the sweat was trickling down his neck. “I’m…I’ll be…quite all ri—” He stopped suddenly, gasping, and leaned heavily on the table. The pots shifted a little and two of them chimed together, a high-pitched ringing that set her teeth on edge and made her skin jump.

“Perhaps you’d best sit down,” she said, seizing him by the elbow and trying to lead him back a step, lest he fall face-first into hundreds of pounds of priceless porcelain and rare flowers. He stumbled back and sank to his knees in the gravel, clutching her arms, a heavy weight. She looked wildly about for help, but there was no one in the glasshouse. Mr. Bloomer had disappeared.

“I—” He choked, coughed, coughed harder, gulped air. His lips were slightly blue, which scared her. His eyes were open, but she thought he couldn’t see; he let go of her and fumbled blindly at the skirts of his coat. “Need—”

“What is it? Is it in your pocket?” She stooped, pushed his hand away, groped through the folds of fabric, and felt something hard. There was a small pocket in the tail of his coat, and she thought for an instant that she hadn’t expected it to be quite this way the first time she touched a man’s buttocks, but she found her way into the pocket and extracted a blue enameled snuffbox.

“Is this what you want?” she asked dubiously, holding it out. Snuff seemed the very last thing likely to be helpful to a man in his state, surely….

He took it from her, hands shaking, and tried to open the box. She took it back and opened it for him, only to find a tiny corked vial inside. With no idea what to do—she glanced wildly toward the entrance again, but no help appeared—she took the vial in hand, pulled the cork, and gasped, recoiling as the stinging fumes of ammonia rushed out.

She held the vial to his nose, and he gasped in turn, sneezed—all over her hand—then grabbed her hand and held the vial closer, taking one heroic breath before he dropped it.