Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
8th Jan 2013 from Twitlonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #Outin2013 #NOitisntfinishedyet #whentheresapubdateIlltellyou #wheresanEMTwhenyouneedone ?
Roger’s first impression was that the house was crammed to the rafters with odorous humanity. Individuals lay in small snuggled heaps on the floor near the hearth or on pallets by the far wall, and here and there tousled heads poked up like prairie dogs, blinking in the glow of the smoored fire to see what was to do.
Their host—introduced as Angus MacLaren—nodded curtly at Roger and gestured toward a bedstead drawn into the center of the room. Two or three small children were sleeping on it, but Roger could just make out the blur of Buck’s face on the pillow. Christ, he hoped Buck didn’t have anything contagious.
He leaned in close, whispering “Buck?” so as not to wake anyone who hadn’t waked already. He couldn’t make out much of Buck’s face in the gloom—besides the dark, it was covered with beard-stubble—but the man’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t open them in response to Roger’s saying his name. Nor in response to Roger’s laying a hand on his arm. The arm did feel warm, but given the suffocating atmosphere in the cottage, he thought likely Buck would feel warm even if he’d been dead for hours.