#DailyLines #BookNine #ForClairesBirthday #HealingTouch #NoRealSpoilers #NoItIsntDoneYet #GoReadTheOC2 #Oct27

Roger raised his chin and I reached up carefully, fitting my fingers about his neck, just under his jaw. He’d just shaved; his skin was cool and slightly damp and I caught a whiff of the shaving soap Brianna made for him, scented with juniper berries. I was moved by the sense of ceremony in that small gesture--and moved much more by the hope in his eyes that he tried to hide.

“You know—“ I said hesitantly, and felt his Adam’s apple bob below my hand.

“I know,” he said gruffly. “No expectations. If something happens…well, it does. If not, I’m no worse off.”

I nodded, and felt gently about. I’d done that before, after his injury, tending the swelling and the rope-burn, now a ragged white scar. The tracheotomy I’d performed to save his life had left a smaller scar in the hollow of his throat, a slight depression about an inch long. I passed my thumb over that, feeling the healthy rings of cartilage above and below. The lightness of the touch made him shiver suddenly, tiny goosebumps stippling his neck, and he gave the breath of a laugh.

“Goose walking on my grave,” he said.

“Stamping about on your throat, more like,” I said, smiling. “Tell me again what Dr. MacEwan said.”

I hadn’t taken my hand away, and felt the lurch of his Adam’s apple as he cleared his throat hard.

“He prodded my throat—much as you’re doing,” he added, smiling back. “And he asked me if I knew what a hyoid bone was. He said—“ Roger’s hand rose involuntarily toward his throat, but stopped a few inches from touching it, “—that mine was an inch or so higher than usual, and that if it had been in the normal place, I’d be dead.”

“Really,” I said, interested. I put a thumb just under his jaw and said, “Swallow, please.”

He did, and I touched my own neck and swallowed, still touching his.

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “It’s a small sample size, and granted, there may be differences attributable to gender—but he may well be right. Perhaps you’re a Neanderthal.”

“A what?” He stared at me.

“Just a joke,” I assured him. “But it’s true that one of the differences between the Neanderthals and modern humans is the hyoid. Most scientists think they hadn’t one at all, and therefore couldn’t speak, but my Uncle Lamb said--you rather need one for coherent speech” I added, seeing his blank look. “It anchors the tongue.”

“How extremely fascinating,” Roger said politely.

I cleared my own throat, and circled his neck once again.

“Right. And after saying about your hyoid—what did he do? How did he touch you?”

Roger tilted his head back slightly, and reaching up, adjusted my grip, moving my hand down an inch and gently spreading my fingers.

“About like that,” he said, and I found that my hand was now covering—or at least touching—all the major structures of his throat, from larynx to hyoid.

“And then…?” I was listening intently—not to his voice, but to the sense of his flesh. I’d had my hands on his throat dozens of times, particularly during his recovery from the hanging, but what with one thing and another, hadn’t touched it in several years. I could feel the solid muscles of his neck, firm under the skin, and I felt his pulse, strong and regular—a little fast, and I realized just how important this was to him. I felt a qualm at that; I had no idea what Hector MacEwan might have done—or what Roger might have imagined he’d done—and still less notion how to do anything myself.

“_I know what your larynx feels like, and what a normal larynx should feel like—and I try to make it feel like that_.” That’s what MacEwan had said, in response to Roger’s questions. I wondered if I knew what a normal larynx felt like.


“There was a sensation of warmth.” Roger’s eyes had closed; he was concentrating on my touch. I closed my own. The smooth bulge of his larynx lay under the heel of my hand, bobbing slightly when he swallowed. “Nothing startling. Just the feeling you get when you step into a room where a fire is burning.”

“Does my touch feel warm to you now?” It should, I thought; his skin was cool from the evaporation of shaving.

“Yes,” he said, not opening his eyes. “But it’s on the outside. It was on the inside when MacEwan…did what he did.” His dark brows drew together in concentration. “It…I felt it…here—“ Reaching up, he moved my thumb to rest just to the right of center, directly beneath the hyoid. “And…._here_.” His eyes opened in surprise, and he pressed two fingers to the flesh above his collarbone, an inch or two to the left of the suprasternal notch. “How odd; I hadn’t remembered that.”

“And he touched you there, as well?” I moved my lower fingers down and felt the quickening of my senses that often happened when I was fully engaged with a patient’s body. Roger felt it, too—his eyes flashed to mine, startled.

“What--?” he began, but before either of us could speak further, there was a high-pitched yowl outside. This was instantly followed by a confusion of young voices, more yowling, then a voice immediately identifiable as Mandy in a passion, bellowing, “You’re bad, you’re bad, you’re _bad_ and I hate you! You’re bad and youse going to HELL!”

Roger leapt to his feet and thrust aside the makeshift gauze screen that covered the window.

“Amanda!” he bellowed. “Come in here right now!” Over his shoulder, I saw Amanda, face contorted with rage, trying to grab her doll, Esmeralda, which Germain was dangling by one arm, just above her head, dancing to keep away from Amanda’s concerted attempts to kick him.

Startled, Germain looked up, and Amanda connected full-force with his shin. She was wearing the stout half-boots Jamie had bought for her from the cobbler in Salem, and the crack of impact was clearly audible, though instantly superceded by Germain’s cry of pain. Jemmy, looking appalled, grabbed Esmeralda, thrust her into Amanda’s arms, and with a guilty glance over his shoulder, ran for the woods, followed by a hobbling Germain.

“Jeremiah!” Roger roared. “Stop right there!” Jem froze as though hit by a death-ray; Germain didn’t, and vanished with a wild rustling into the shrubbery.

I’d been watching the boys, but a faint choking noise made me glance sharply at Roger. He’d gone pale, and was clutching his throat with both hands. I seized his arm.

“Are you all right?”

“I…don’t know.” He spoke in a rasping whisper, but gave me the shadow of a pained smile. “Think I—might have sprained something.”

“Daddy?” said a small voice from the doorway. Amanda sniffled dramatically, wiping tears and snot all over her face. “Is you mad at me, Daddy?”

Roger took an immense breath, coughed, and went over, squatting down to take her in his arms.

“No, sweetheart,” he said softly—but in a fairly normal voice, and something clenched inside me began to relax. “I’m not mad. You mustn’t tell people they’re going to hell, though. Come here, let’s wash your face.” He stood up, holding her, and turned toward my mixing table, where there was a basin and ewer.

“I’ll do it,” I said, reaching out for Mandy. “Maybe you want to go and…er…talk to Jem?”

“Mmphm,” he said, and handed her across. A natural snuggler, Mandy at once clung affectionately to my neck and wrapped her legs around my middle.

“Can we wash my dolly’s face, too?” she asked. “Dose bad boys got her dirty!”

I listened with half an ear to Mandy’s mingled endearments to Esmeralda and denunciations of her brother and Germain, but most of my attention was focused on what was going on in the yard.

I could hear Jem’s voice, high and argumentative, and Roger’s, firm and much lower, but couldn’t pick out any words. Roger was talking, though, and I didn’t hear any choking or coughing…that was good.

The memory of him bellowing at the children was even better. He’d done that before—it was a necessity, children and the great outdoors being what they respectively were—but I’d never heard him do it without his voice breaking, with a followup of coughing and throat-clearing. MacEwan had said that it was a small improvement, and that it took time for healing. Had I actually done anything to help?

I looked critically at the palm of my hand, but it looked much as usual; a half-healed paper cut on the middle finger, stains from picking blackberries, and a burst blister on my thumb, from snatching a spider full of bacon that had caught fire out of the hearth without a rag. Not a sign of any blue light, certainly.

“Wassat, Grannie?” Amanda leaned off the counter to look at my upturned hand.

“What’s what? That black splotch? I think it’s ink; I was writing up my case-book last night. Kirsty Wilson’s rash.” I’d thought at first it was just poison sumac, but it was hanging on in a rather worrying fashion…no fever, though…perhaps it was hives? Or some kind of atypical psoriasis?

“No, _dat_.” Mandy poked a wet, chubby finger at the heel of my hand. “Issa letter!” She twisted her head half-round to look closer, black curls tickling across my arm. “Letter J!” she announced triumphantly. “J is for Jemmy! I hate Jemmy,” she added, frowning.

“Er…” I said, completely nonplused. It was the letter “J.” The scar had faded to a thin white line, but was still clear if the light struck right. The scar Jamie had given me, when I’d left him at Culloden. Left him to die, hurling myself through the stones to save his unborn, unknown child. Our child. And if I hadn’t?

I looked at Mandy, blue-eyed and black-curled and perfect as a tiny spring apple. Heard Jem outside, now giggling with his father. It had cost us twenty years apart—years of heartbreak, pain and danger. And it had been worth it.

“It’s for Grand-da’s name. J for Jamie,” I said to Amanda, who nodded as though that made perfect sense, clutching a soggy Esmeralda to her chest. I touched her glowing cheek, and imagined for an instant that my fingers might be tinged with blue.

“Mandy,” I said, on impulse. “What color is my hair?”

“_When your hair is white, you’ll come into your full power_.” An old Tuscarora wisewoman named Nayawenne had said that to me, years ago—along with a lot of other disturbing things.

Mandy stared intently at me for a moment, then said definitely, “Brindle.”

“What? Where did you learn that word, for heaven’s sake?”

“Grand-da. He said it’s what color Charlie is.” Charlie was a rather stylish pig belonging to the Beardsley household.

“Hmm,” I said. “Not yet, then. All right, sweetheart, let’s go and hang Esmeralda out to dry.”


[end section]

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