Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
29th Jan 2014 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #whatthefuturemayhold #besidescheese
“Talk daft to me some more, aye?” He sat down heavily on the stool and sighed, but with relief.
“Mind,” he said. “I havena the slightest idea how I’m going to keep ye, with no money, no commission and no profession. But keep ye I will.”
“No profession, forsooth,” I said comfortably. “Name one thing you can’t do.”
“Sing.”
“Oh. Well, besides that.”
He spread his hands on his knees, looking critically at the scars on his maimed right hand.
“I doubt I could make a living as a juggler or a pickpocket, either. Let alone a scribe.”
“You haven’t got to write,” I said. “You have a printing press—Bonnie, by name.”
“Well, aye,” he admitted, a certain light coming into his eyes. “I do. But she’s in [Wilmington] at the moment.” His press had been shipped from Edinburgh in the care of Richard Bell, who was—presumably—keeping her in trust until her real owner should come to repossess her.
“We’ll go and get her. And then…” But I stopped, afraid to jinx the future by planning too far. It was an uncertain time for everyone, and no telling what the morrow might bring.
“But first,” I amended, reaching out to squeeze his hand, “you should rest. You look as though you’re about to die.”
“Dinna talk that sort of daft,” he said, and laughed and yawned simultaneously, nearly breaking his jaw.
“Lie down,” I said firmly. “Sleep—at least until Lieutenant Bixby shows up again with more cheese.”