Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

He sat down heavily in the gravel, hunched over, and wheezed and snorted and gulped, as she surreptitiously wiped her hand on her petticoat.

“Sir…I’m going to go and find someone to help,” she said, and made to do so, but his hand had shot out and grasped the fabric of her skirt. He shook his head, speechless, but after a moment got enough breath to say, “No. Be…all…right now.”

She doubted that very much. Still, being conspicuous was the last thing she wanted, and he did seem, if not exactly better, at least less in danger of dying on the spot.

She nodded uncertainly, though she didn’t think he saw her, and after looking about helplessly for a moment sat down gingerly on the rim of a raised bed full of what looked like pincushions, varying from things that would have fit in the palm of her hand (had they not been equipped with quite so many thorns) to ones much larger than her head. Her stays felt tight, and she tried to slow her breathing.

As her alarm subsided, she became aware of the distant chatter in the orchid house, which had just become noticeably louder and higher-pitched.

“Fred…rick,” said the hunched form at her feet.

“What?” She bent over to look at him. He was still a bad color and breathing noisily, but he was breathing.

“Prince…” He flipped a hand toward the distant noise.

“Oh.” She thought he meant that the Prince of Wales had come in to view the orchids, this causing the rising tide of excitement next door. In that case, she thought, they were probably safe from interruption for the present—no one would abandon His Royal Highness in order to look at pincushions and Chinese…whatever-they-weres.

His Grace had closed his eyes and appeared to be concentrating on breathing, which she thought a good thing. Moved by the desire to do something other than stare at the poor man, she rose and went over to the Chinese bowls.

All her attention had been for the porcelain, to start with, but now she examined the bowls’ contents. Chrysanthemum, that’s what he’d said. Most of the flowers were smallish, little tufty ball-like blossoms in cream or gold, with long stems and dark-green leaves. One was a pretty rusty color, though, and another bowl held a profusion of small purple blossoms. Then she saw a larger version, snowy white, and realized what she was looking at.

“Oh!” she said, quite loud. She glanced guiltily over her shoulder, then put out a hand and touched the flower very gently. There it was: the curved, symmetrical petals, tightly layered but airy, as though the flower floated above its leaves. It—they—had a noticeable fragrance, so close to. Nothing like the voluptuous, fleshy scents of the orchids; this was a delicate, bitter perfume—but perfume, nonetheless.

“Oh,” she said again, more quietly, and breathed it in. It was clean and fresh and made her think of cold wind and pure skies and high mountains.

“Chu,” said the man sitting in the gravel behind her.

“Bless you,” she said absently. “Are you feeling better?”

“The flowers. They’re called chu. In Chinese. I apologize.”

That made her turn round. He’d made it up onto one knee but was swaying a bit, plainly gathering his strength to try to rise. She reached down and gripped his hand as solidly as she could. His fingers were cold, but his grip was firm. He looked surprised but nodded and, with a wheezing gasp, staggered to his feet, releasing her hand as he did so.

“I apologize,” he said again, and inclined his head an inch. More than that and he might have fallen again, she thought, bracing herself uneasily to catch him if he did. “For discommoding you, madam.”

“Not at all,” she said politely. His eyes were rather unfocused, and she could hear his breath creaking in his chest. “Er…what the devil just happened to you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He shook his head, then stopped abruptly, eyes closed.

“I—nothing. I shouldn’t have come in here. Knew better.”

“You’re going to fall down again, I think,” she said, and took him by the hand once more, guiding him to the raised bed, where she made him sit and sat beside him.

“You should have stayed at home,” she said reprovingly, “if you knew you were ill.”

“I’m not ill.” He ran a trembling hand over the sweat on his face, which he then wiped carelessly on the skirts of his coat. “I—I just…”

She sighed and glanced at the doorway, then behind her. No other way out, and the chatter in the orchid house was still going strong.

“You just what?” she said. “I’m not dragging it out of you one word at a time. Tell me what’s the matter with you, or I’m going in there and fetching His Highness out to look after you.”

He gave her an astonished look, then started to laugh. And to wheeze. He stopped, fist to his mouth, and panted a bit, catching more breath.

“If you must know…” he said, and gulped air, “my father shot himself in the conservatory at our house. Three years ago…today. I…saw him. His body. Among the glass, all the plants, the—the light—” He looked up at the panes overhead, blinding with sun, then down at the gravel, patterned with the same light, and closed his eyes briefly. “It…disturbed me. I wouldn’t have come—” He paused to cough. “Pardon me. I wouldn’t have come here today, save that His Highness invited me, and I needed very much to meet him.” His eyes, bloodshot and watering, met hers directly. They were blue, pale blue.

“In the unlikely event that you haven’t heard the story: my father was accused of treason; he shot himself the night before they planned to arrest him.”

“That’s very terrible,” Minnie said, appalled. Terrible in a number of ways—not least in the realization that this must be the Duke of Pardloe, the one her father had in mind as a potential…source. She avoided even thinking the word “victim.”

“It was. He was not a traitor, as it happens, but there you are. The family was disgraced, naturally. His regiment—the one he had raised, had built himself—was disbanded. I mean to raise it again.” He spoke with a simple matter-of-factness and paused to mop his face with his hand again.

“Haven’t you got a handkerchief? Here, have mine.” She squirmed on the rough stones, digging for her pocket.

“Thank you.” He wiped his face more thoroughly, coughed once, and shook his head. “I need support—patronage from high quarters—in that endeavor, and a friend managed an introduction to His Highness, who was kind enough to listen to me. I think he’ll help,” he added, in a meditative sort of way. Then he glanced at her and smiled ruefully. “Wouldn’t help my cause to be found writhing on the ground like a worm directly after speaking to him, though, would it?”

“No, I can see that.” She considered for a moment, then ventured a cautious question. “The sal volatile—” She gestured at the vial, fallen to the ground a few feet away. “Do you often feel faint? Or did you just…think you might need it today?”