Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
8th Mar 2014 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #supperattheprintshop
“A fine thing for a mother to be thinking about her son,” I said under my breath, though I could neither keep the amusement out of my own voice, nor say she was wrong. Rachel glowed in the magic light of mingled dusk and hearth-fire, and her eyes rested on the lines of Ian’s back, even as she admired Felicitè’s new rag-doll.
“He takes after his father,” Jenny said, and made a little “hmph” in her throat—still amused, but with a faint tinge of…longing? My own eyes went to Jamie, who had come to join Fergus and Ian by the sideboard. Still here, thank God. Tall and graceful, the soft light making shadows in the folds of his shirt as he moved, a fugitive gleam from the long straight bridge of his nose, the auburn wave of his hair. Still mine. Thank God.
“Come cut the bread, Joanie!” Marsali called. “Henri-Christian, fetch the butter, aye? And Felicitè, put your heid outside and call Germain.” The distant sound of boys’ voices came from the street, shouts punctuated by the occasional thud of a ball against the front wall of the shop. “And tell those wee heathens I said if they break a window-pane, their fathers will hear about it!”
A brief outbreak of domestic chaos ended with all the adults seated on the benches at table, and the children in their own huddle by the hearth with their wooden bowls and spoons. Despite the heat of the evening, the fragrant steam of onions, milk, seafood and fresh bread enveloped the table in a brief enchantment of anticipation.