Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“WHAT DOES THIS MEAN, se?or?” Jacinto had been reading the note over his shoulder, without the slightest attempt to pretend he wasn’t. “This is…not English, is it?”

“It is,” he assured the butler, carefully folding the note and putting it in his pocket. He felt as though someone had punched him in the chest, very hard, and he had trouble catching his breath.

It was English, all right—but English that no one but an Englishman would understand. And not even an Englishman like Tom—who was frowning at Inocencia in puzzlement—would know the meaning of that last, paralyzing sentence.

Your ball.

Grey swallowed, tasting the last bitterness of the breakfast drink, and made himself breathe deep. Then he stooped and raised Inocencia to her feet. She was gasping for breath, too, he saw, and there were tracks of dried tears on her cheeks.

“The consul has been arrested?” he asked. She looked helplessly from him to Jacinto, who coughed and translated what Grey had said. She nodded violently, biting her lower lip.

“Está en El Morro,” she managed, gulping, and added something else that Grey couldn’t follow. A quick back and forth, and Jacinto turned to Grey, his long old face very grave.

“This woman says that your friend was arrested at the city wall last night and has been taken to El Morro. That is where the gobierno—the government, excuse me—where they keep prisoners. This…lady”—he inclined his head, giving Inocencia the benefit of the doubt—“she saw Se?or Stubbs being taken to the governor’s office soon after dawn, and so she waited nearby and followed when they took him down to—” He broke off to ask Inocencia a sharp question. She shook her head and said something in reply.

“He is not in the dungeon,” Jacinto reported. “But he is locked in a room where they put gentlemen when it is necessary to contain them. She was able to come and talk to him through the door, once the guards had left, and he wrote this note and told her to hurry and bring it to you at once, before you left the city.” Jacinto shot Grey a glance but then coughed and looked away. “He said you would know what to do.”

Grey felt a black dizziness come over him and a prickle of rising hair on the back of his neck. His lips felt stiff.

“Did he, indeed.”



“YOU CAN’T, ME LORD!” Tom stared at him, aghast.

“I’m very much afraid you’re right, Tom,” he said, striving for calm. “But I don’t see that I have any choice but to try.”

He thought Tom was going to be sick; the young valet’s face was pale as the morning mist that blanketed the tiny garden where they’d gone for a bit of privacy. Grey was himself just as pleased that he hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast; he recalled Jamie Fraser telling him once, in inimitable Scottish fashion, that his “wame was clenched like a fist,” a phrase that described his own present sensation to a T.

He’d have given a lot to have Fraser beside him on this occasion.

He’d have given almost as much to have Tom.

As it was, he was apparently going into battle supported by a stuttering ex-zombie, an African woman of unpredictable temper and known homicidal tendencies, and Malcolm Stubbs’s concubine.

“It will be fine,” he told Tom firmly. “Inocencia will provide an introduction to the ringleaders and establish my bona fides.” And if she failed to convince these men that Grey had any such qualifications, all of them would likely be for the chop within seconds: He’d seen machetes wielded with casually murderous ease yesterday—God, was it only yesterday?—by field hands on his way to Cojimar.

“And Rodrigo and Azeel will be there to help me speak to them,” he added, with a little more confidence. To his surprise, when he had put the situation before them, the Sanchezes had shared a long marital look, then nodded soberly and said they would go.

“Rodrigo’s a good ’un,” Tom admitted reluctantly. “But he won’t be no good to you in a fight, me lord.” His own fists had been clenched throughout the conversation, and it was clear that he had a higher opinion of his own abilities in that regard.

Actually, Grey thought, he might be right. Used as he was to Tom’s constant presence, he hadn’t taken conscious notice, but his valet was no longer the pie-faced seventeen-year-old who had bluffed his way into Grey’s service. Tom had grown a few inches, and while not in Malcolm Stubbs’s class in the matter of bulk, he’d definitely filled out. His shoulders were square and his freckled forearms nicely muscled. However…

“If it comes to that sort of fight, it wouldn’t matter if I had an entire company of infantry with me,” he said. He smiled at his valet with true affection. “And besides, Tom:—I cannot depend on anyone but you to see to things here. You must go with Jacinto to find a doctor—cost is no consideration; I’m leaving you with all of our English money, and there’s enough gold there to buy half of Havana—and then take the man to the Valdez plantation, along with any medicines he thinks useful. I’ve written a note to my mother—” He reached into his bosom and withdrew a small folded square, sealed with smoky candle wax and stamped with his smiling half-moon signet. “See that she gets that.”

“Yes, me lord.” Tom glumly accepted the note and tucked it away.

“And then find someplace nearby to stay. Don’t stay in the house; I don’t want you to be exposed to the fever. But keep an eye on things: Visit twice a day, make sure the doctor does what he can, give Her Grace any assistance she’ll let you give, and send back reports every day as to the state of things. I don’t know when I’ll get them”—or if— “but send them anyway.”

Tom sighed but nodded.

Grey stopped, unable to think of anything else. The casa was well awake by now, and there was a muted sense of bustle in the distant patio, a rising scent of boiling beans and the sweetness of fried plantains. He hadn’t told the house servants anything of his own unspeakable mission—they couldn’t help, and to know anything at all of it would put both himself and them in danger. But they knew about the situation at Hacienda Valdez, and he’d heard the murmur of prayers and the clicking of rosary beads when he’d passed by the patio a few minutes ago. It was oddly comforting.

He reached out and clasped Tom’s hand, squeezing.

“I trust you, Tom,” he said softly.

Tom’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. His deft, sturdy fingers turned and squeezed back.

“I know, me lord,” he said. “You can.”