Outlander Novella [01] The Space Between Read Online Free PDF Page B

baldly, only because it seemed necessary to say something.
    He took a deep breath and appeared to sway a little; he’d finished the rest of the wine, she saw, and she took the empty bottle from his hand, tossing it overboard.
    “The influenza. They said it was quick. Didn’t feel quick to me—and yet, it was, I suppose it was. It took two days, and God kens well that I recall every second of those days—yet it seems that I lost her between one heartbeat and the next. And I—I keep lookin’ for her there, in that space between.”
    He swallowed. “She—she was …” The words “with child” came so quietly that she barely heard them.
    “Oh,” Joan said softly, very moved. “Oh,
a chuisle
.” “Heart’s blood,” it meant, and what
she
meant was that his wife had been that to him—dear Lord, she hoped he hadn’t thought she meant—no, he hadn’t, and the tight-wound spring in her backbone relaxed a little, seeing the look of gratitude on his face. He did know what she’d meant and seemed glad that she’d understood.
    Blinking, she looked away—and caught sight of the young man with the shadow on him,leaning against the railing a little way down. The breath caught in her throat at sight of him.
    The shadow was darker in the morning light. The sun was beginning to warm the deck, frail white clouds swam in the blue of clear French skies, and yet the mist now swirled and thickened, obscuring the young man’s face, wrapping round his shoulders like a shawl.
    Dear Lord, tell me what to do!
Her body jerked, wanting to go to the young man, speak to him. But to say what?
“You’re in danger, be careful”
? He’d think she was mad. And if the danger was a thing he couldn’t help, like with wee Ronnie and the ox, what difference might her speaking make?
    She was dimly aware of Michael staring at her, curious. He said something to her, but she wasn’t listening, listening hard instead inside her head. Where were the damned voices when you bloody
needed
one?
    But the voices were stubbornly silent, and she turned to Michael, the muscles of her arm jumping, she’d held so tight to the ship’s rigging.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasna listening properly. I just—thought of something.”
    “If it’s a thing I can help ye with, Sister, ye’ve only to ask,” he said, smiling faintly. “Oh! And speak of that, I meant to say—I said to your mam, if she liked to write to you in care of Fraser
et Cie
, I’d see to it that ye got the letters.” He shrugged, one-shouldered. “I dinna ken what the rules are at the convent, aye? About getting letters from outside.”
    Joan didn’t know that, either, and had worried about it. She was so relieved to hear this that a huge smile split her face.
    “Oh, it’s that kind of ye!” she said. “And if I could—maybe write back …?”
    His smile grew wider, the marks of grief easing in his pleasure at doing her a service.
    “Anytime,” he assured her. “I’ll see to it. Perhaps I could—”
    A ragged shriek cut through the air, and Joan glanced up, startled, thinking it one of the seabirds that had come out from shore to wheel round the ship, but it wasn’t. The young man was standing on the rail, one hand on the rigging, and before she could so much as draw breath, he let go and was gone.

Paris
    Michael was worried for Joan; she sat slumped in the coach, not bothering to look out of the window, until a faint waft of the cool breeze touched her face. The smell was so astonishing that it drew her out of the shell of shocked misery in which she had traveled from the docks.
    “Mother o’ God!” she said, clapping a hand to her nose. “What
is
that?”
    Michael dug in his pocket and pulled out the grubby rag of his handkerchief, looking dubiously at it.
    “It’s the public cemeteries. I’m sorry, I didna think—”
    “Moran taing.”
She seized the damp cloth from him and held it over her face, not caring. “Do the French not
bury
folk in their