Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
31st Mar 2014 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #awinterscontemplation
Resolved, William paid for his meal, wrapped himself in his cloak, and set off. It wasn’t raining, that was one good thing.
It was January, though, and the days were still short; the shadows were lengthening by the time he came to the edge of the sea of camp-followers that had formed around the army. He made his way past a conclave of red-armed laundresses, their kettles all fuming in the chilly air and the scent of smoke and lye-soap hanging over them in a witchy sort of haze.
“Double, double, toil and trouble,” he chanted under his breath, “Fire burn and caldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, in the caldron boil and bake. Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog…” He couldn’t recall what came next and abandoned the effort.
Beyond the laundresses, the ground was choppy, boggy spots interspersed with higher bits of ground, these crowned with stunted trees and low bushes—and quite obviously providing a footing, so to speak, for the whores to ply their own trade.
He gave these a somewhat wider berth, and consequently found himself squelching through something that was not quite a bog, but not far off, either. It was remarkably beautiful, though, in a chiaroscuro sort of way; the fading light somehow made each barren twig stand out in stark contrast to the air, the swollen buds still sleeping but rounded, balanced on the edge between winter’s death and the life of spring. He wished for a moment that he could draw, or paint, or write poetry, but as it was, he could only pause for a few seconds to admire it.
As he did so, though, he felt a permanence form in his heart; a quiet conviction that even though he had only these few seconds, he would have them forever, could come back to this place, this time in his mind.
He was right, though not entirely for the reasons he supposed.