Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“Normally that would be true,” she agreed. “But we—or I, rather—have the money with which to buy our food, and once we’ve bought it, you will be carrying it. A pickpocket steals to eat, n’est-ce pas? They don’t care whether you have money or food, and most of them are so depraved that they would willingly steal from God himself, let alone a couple of chick-headed postulants.”


For Joan’s part, she wanted to see everything, pickpockets included. To her delight, the market was the one she’d passed with Michael on her first day in Paris. True, the sight of it brought back the horrors and doubts of that first day, too—but, for the moment, she pushed those aside and followed Sister George into the fascinating maelstrom of color, smells, and shouting.

Filing away a particularly entertaining expression that she planned to make Sister Philomène explain to her—Sister Philomène was a little older than Joan, but painfully shy and with such delicate skin that she blushed like an apple at the least excuse—she followed Sister George and Sister Mathilde through the fishmonger’s section, where Sister George bargained shrewdly for a great quantity of sand dabs, scallops, tiny gray translucent shrimp, and an enormous sea salmon, the pale spring light shifting through its scales in colors that faded so subtly from pink to blue to silver and back that some of them had no name at all—so beautiful even in its death that it made Joan catch her breath with joy at the wonder of creation.

“Oh, bouillabaisse tonight!” said Mercy, under her breath. “Délicieuse!”

“What is bouillabaisse?” Joan whispered back.

“Fish stew—you’ll like it, I promise!” Joan had no doubt of it; brought up in the Highlands during the poverty-stricken years following the Rising, she’d been staggered by the novelty, deliciousness, and sheer abundance of the convent’s food. Even on Fridays, when the community fasted during the day, supper was simple but mouthwatering, toasted sharp cheese on nutty brown bread with sliced apples.

Luckily, the salmon was so huge that Sister George arranged for the fish seller to deliver it to the convent, along with the other briny purchases; thus they had room in their baskets for fresh vegetables and fruit and so passed from Neptune’s realm to that of Demeter. Joan hoped it wasn’t sacrilegious to think of Greek gods, but she couldn’t forget the book of myths that Da had read to Marsali and her when they were young, with wonderful hand-colored illustrations.

After all, she told herself, you needed to know about the Greeks if you studied medicine. She had some trepidation at the thought of working in the hospital, but God called people to do things, and if it was his will, then—

The thought stopped short as she caught sight of a neat dark tricorne with a curled blue feather bobbing slowly through the tide of people. Was it—it was! Léonie, the sister of Michael Murray’s dead wife. Moved by curiosity, Joan glanced at Sister George, who was engrossed in a huge display of fungus—dear God, people ate such things?—and slipped around a barrow billowing with green sallet herbs.

She meant to speak to Léonie, ask her to tell Michael that she needed to talk to him. Perhaps he could contrive a way to visit the convent…But before Joan could get close enough, Léonie looked furtively over her shoulder, as though fearing discovery, then ducked behind a curtain that hung across the back of a small caravan.

Joan had seen gypsies before, though not often. A dark-skinned man loitered nearby, talking with a group of others; their eyes passed over her habit without pausing, and she sighed with relief. Being a nun was as good as having a cloak of invisibility in most circumstances, she thought.

She looked round for her companions and saw that Sister Mathilde had been called into consultation regarding a big warty lump of something that looked like the excrement of a seriously diseased hog. Good, she could wait for a minute longer.

In fact, it took very little more than that before Léonie slipped out from behind the curtain, tucking something into the small basket on her arm. For the first time, it struck Joan as unusual that someone like Léonie should be shopping without a servant to push back crowds and carry purchases—or even be in a public market. Michael had told her about his own household during the voyage—how Madame Hortense, the cook, went to the markets at dawn to be sure of getting the freshest things. What would a lady like Léonie be buying, alone?

Joan slithered as best she could through the rows of stalls and wagons, following the bobbing blue feather. A sudden stop allowed her to come up behind Léonie, who had paused by a flower stall, fingering a bunch of white jonquils.

It occurred suddenly to Joan that she had no idea what Léonie’s last name was, but she couldn’t worry about politeness now.

“Ah…madame?” she said tentatively. “Mademoiselle, I mean?” Léonie swung round, eyes huge and face pale. Finding herself faced with a nun, she blinked, confused.

“Er…it’s me,” Joan said, diffident, resisting the impulse to pull off her veil. “Joan MacKimmie?” It felt odd to say it, as though “Joan MacKimmie” were truly someone else. It took a moment for the name to register, but then Léonie’s shoulders relaxed a little.

“Oh.” She put a hand to her bosom and mustered a small smile. “Michael’s cousin. Of course. I didn’t…er…How nice to see you!” A small frown wrinkled the skin between her brows. “Are you…alone?”

“No,” Joan said hurriedly. “And I mustn’t stop. I only saw you, and I wanted to ask—” It seemed even stupider than it had a moment ago, but no help for it. “Would you tell Monsieur Murray that I must talk to him? I know something—something important—that I have to tell him.”

“Soeur Gregory?” Sister George’s stentorian tones boomed through the higher-pitched racket of the market, making Joan jump. She could see the top of Sister Mathilde’s head, with its great white sails, turning to and fro in vain search.

“I have to go,” she said to the astonished Léonie. “Please. Please tell him!” Her heart was pounding, and not only from the sudden meeting. She’d been looking at Léonie’s basket, where she caught the glint of a brown glass bottle half hidden beneath a thick bunch of what even Joan recognized as black hellebores. Lovely cup-shaped flowers of an eerie greenish-white—and deadly poison.

She dodged back across the market to arrive breathless and apologizing at Sister Mathilde’s side, wondering if…She hadn’t spent much time at all with Da’s wife—but she had heard her talking with Da as she wrote down receipts in a book, and she’d mentioned black hellebore as something women used to make themselves miscarry. If Léonie were pregnant…Holy Mother of God, could she be with child by Michael? The thought struck her like a blow in the stomach.

No. No, she couldn’t believe it. He was still in love with his wife, anyone could see that, and even if not, she’d swear he wasn’t the sort to…But what did she ken about men, after all?