Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
19th Jan 2014 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #preppingforsurgery
I wasn’t going to faint. Or at least I hoped not. But I was trapped there in that close, hot room, smelling blood and tar and the scent of myrrh in the laudanum, feeling Tench’s agony. And I could _not_ do that. I couldn’t, I mustn’t.
Peggy hurried in, a maid-servant behind her, several large knives clutched to her bosom.
“Will one of these do?” She laid them in a clinking heap at the foot of the bed, then stood back, gazing anxiously at her cousin’s pale, slack face.
“I’m sure one will.” I stirred the heap gingerly, extracting a couple of possibilities: a carving knife that looked sharp, and a big, heavy knife of the sort used for chopping vegetables. And, with a vivid recollection of the snap of severed tendons, a paring knife with a freshly-sharpened, silvered edge.
“Boiling water?” I asked, brows raised.
“Chrissy is bringing it,” Peggy assured me. She licked her lips, uneasy. “Do you—mmm.” She broke off, narrowly avoiding saying what she so plainly thought: ‘_Do you know what you’re doing_?”
I did. That was the trouble.