Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
8th Nov 2016 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #BookNine #noitsnotanywherenearfinished #EveryDawnIsANewDay #AndSoIsThisOne #dontwatchtheelectioncoverage #gowatchOutlander
It was warm and cozy under the heap of quilts and furs—even more warm and cozy by contrast with the icy touch of the morning on my face. I drew a long, clean breath of the new air, hoping that it didn’t smell of snow. We’d been lucky—very lucky—so far; it had rained only twice since we’d left home, and we were very nearly out of the mountains.
If today kept fine, nothing broke on the wagon, neither of the mules cracked a hoof or developed colic, the two horses refrained from biting pieces out of each other (and us) and nobody of an unfriendly nature took an interest in us, we might make it into the upper reaches of the Piedmont by nightfall.
I didn’t smell snow. I smelled smoke, with an alluring tinge of boiling coffee. I smiled, not yet opening my eyes. Jamie was up, then—of course he was; he always woke half an hour before sunup, unless sick or injured, and while I didn’t smell the light of dawn, I could see the faint glow of it through my closed eyelids. Fanny stirred beside me, cuddled close and butted her head into my upper arm. On my other side, Germain lay sprawled on his back, snoring like a small buzz-saw.
Coffee or not, I didn’t want to get up, but knew I had to. Beyond hunger and the need to pee, I could feel Jamie’s urgency. We had to make as much distance as we could before nightfall; the weather became more of a threat with each day, and even if we escaped the mountain passes before the snow came, slogging through knee-deep mud in the Piedmont wasn’t my idea of fun.
“Wake up, Sassenach,” said a low Scottish voice, and an instant later, large icy hands slid under the furs and grabbed both my feet in a grip of iron. I shrieked, and so did both children, exploding out of the covers like a covey of quail.
“What-what-what…” Fanny was crouched at the back of the canvas shelter, big-eyed as a marmoset, her hair in a tangle.
“[ French bad word ],” Germain muttered balefully under his breath. “What’s this? The end of the world?”
“No, it’s morning,” Jamie said patiently. He was squatting at the mouth of our shelter, fully clad in hunting shirt, breeks and plaid, and the scents of smoke and coffee drifted alluringly past him.
“Much the same sort of thing,” Germain grumbled and made to crawl back under the covers.
“Get up, ye wee sluggard.” Jamie seized him by the ankle and pulled. “Look to the ant and be wise, aye?”
“Ants?” Fanny had sat down and was combing her hair with her fingers. “Are ants wise?” She sounded bewildered, but not discomposed. Unlike Germain—and me, for that matter—she normally woke in full possession of her faculties.
“It’s a wee bit from the Bible, Frances,” Jamie said, letting go of Germain, who was now halfway out of the tent, though still supine. He smiled at her, ruddy and cheerful in the rising light. “I’ll buy ye one of your own, in Wilmington.”