I pulled up a stool and sat down by him, laying the book aside. A small stack of papers lay to one side, covered with his labored writing. It cost him dearly to write, wrong-handed, and that hand crippled-and yet he wrote stubbornly, almost every evening, recording the small events of the day. Visitors to the Ridge, the health of the animals, progress in building, new settlers, news from the Eastern counties ... He wrote it down, one word at a time, to be sent off when some visitor arrived who would take the accumulated pages away, on the first stage of their precarious journey to Scotland. All the letters might not arrive at their destination, but some would. Likewise, most letters from Scotland would reach us, too-if they were sent.

For a time, I had hoped that Jenny's letter had simply been mis-sent, misplaced, lost somewhere in transit. But it had been too long, and I had stopped hoping. Jamie hadn't.

"I thought perhaps I should send her this." He shuffled through the stack of papers at the side of the desk, and withdrew a small sheet, stained and grubby, ragged along one edge where it had been torn from a book.

It was a message from Ian; the only concrete evidence we had that the boy was still alive and well. It had reached us at the Gathering in November, through the agency of John Quincy Myers, a mountain man who roamed the wilderness, as much at home with Indian as with settler, and more at home with deer and possum than with anyone who lived in a house.

Written in clumsy Latin as a joke, the note assured us that Ian was well, and happy. Married to a girl "in the Mohawk fashion" (meaning, I thought, that he had decided to share her house, bed, and hearth, and she had decided to let him), he expected to become a father himself "in the spring." And that was all. Spring had come and gone, with no further word. Ian wasn't dead, but the next thing to it. The chances of us ever seeing him again were remote, and Jamie knew it; the wilderness had swallowed him.

Jamie touched the ratty paper gently, tracing the round, still-childish letters. He'd told Jenny what the note said, I knew-but I also knew why he hadn't sent the original before. It was the only physical link with Ian; to give it up was in some final way to relinquish him to the Mohawk.

"Ave!" said the note, in Ian's half-formed writing. said the note, in Ian's half-formed writing. "Ian salutat avunculus Jacobus." "Ian salutat avunculus Jacobus." Ian salutes his uncle James. Ian salutes his uncle James.

Ian was more to Jamie than one of his nephews. Much as he loved all of Jenny's children, Ian was special-a foster-son, like Fergus; but unlike Fergus, a son of Jamie's blood, replacement in a way for the son he had lost. That son wasn't dead, either, but could not ever be claimed. The world seemed suddenly full of lost children.

"Yes," I said, my throat tight. "I think you should send it. Jenny should have it, even if ..." I coughed, reminded suddenly by the note of the casebook. I reached for it, hoping it would distract him.

"Um. Speaking of Latin ... there's an odd bit in here. Could you have a look at it, perhaps?"

"Aye, of course." He set Ian's note aside and took the book from me, moving it so the last of the afternoon sun fell across the page. He frowned slightly, a finger tracing the lines of writing.

"Christ, the man's no more grasp of Latin grammar than ye have yourself, Sassenach."

"Oh, thanks. We can't all be scholars now, can we?" I moved closer, peering over his shoulder as he read. I'd been right, then; Rawlings didn't drop casually into Latin for the fun of it, or merely to show off his erudition.

"An oddity ..." Jamie said, translating slowly as his finger moved across the page. "I am awake-no, he means 'I was wakened,' I think-by sounds in the chamber adjoining that where I lay. I am thinking-'I thought'-that my patient went to make water, and am risen to follow ... Why should he do that, I wonder?"

"The patient-it's Hector Cameron, by the way-had a problem with his bladder. Rawlings would have wanted to watch him urinate, to see what sort of difficulty he had, whether he had pain, or blood in the urine, that sort of thing."

Jamie gave me a side-long glance, one brow raised, then shook his head and returned to the casebook, murmuring something about the peculiar tastes of physicians.

"Homo procediente ... the man proceeds ... Why does he call him 'the man,' rather than his name?" ... the man proceeds ... Why does he call him 'the man,' rather than his name?"

"He was writing in Latin to be secret," I said, impatient to hear what came next. "If Cameron saw his name in the book, he'd be curious, I expect. What happened?"

"The man goes out-outdoors, does he mean, or only out of his chamber?-outdoors, it must be ... goes out, and I follow. He walks steadily, quickly ... Why should he not? Oh, here-I am puzzled. I give-have given-the man twelve grains of laudanum ..."

"Twelve grains grains? Are you sure that's what he says?" I leaned over Jamie's arm, peering, but sure enough-he pointed to the entry, inscribed in clear black and white. "But that's enough laudanum to fell a horse!"

"Aye, 'twelve grains of laudanum to assist sleep,' he says. No wonder the doctor was puzzled, then, to see Cameron scampering about the lawn in the middle of the night."

I nudged him with an elbow.

"Get on!"

"Mmphm. Well, he says he went to the necessary house-no doubt thinking to find Cameron-but no one was there, and there wasna any smell of ... er ... he didna think anyone had been there recently."

"You needn't be delicate on my account," I said.

"I know," he said, grinning. "But my own sensibilities are no quite coarsened yet, in spite of my long association with you, Sassenach. Ow!" He jerked away, rubbing his arm where I had pinched him. I lowered my brows and gave him a stare, though inwardly pleased to have lightened the mood for both of us.

"Less about your sensibilities, if if you please," I said, tapping my foot. "Besides, you haven't got any in the first place, or you'd never have married me. Where was Cameron, then?" you please," I said, tapping my foot. "Besides, you haven't got any in the first place, or you'd never have married me. Where was Cameron, then?"

He scanned the page, lips silently forming words.

"He doesna ken. He prowled about the place until the butler popped out of his wee hole, thinking him a marauder of some sort, and threatened him wi' a bottle of whisky."

"A formidable weapon, that," I observed, smiling at the thought of a nightcapped Ulysses, brandishing his implement of destruction. "How do you say 'bottle of whisky' in Latin?"

Jamie gave the page a glance.

"He says says 'aqua vitae,' 'aqua vitae,' which is doubtless as close as he could manage. It must have been whisky, though; he says the butler gave him a dram to cure the shock." which is doubtless as close as he could manage. It must have been whisky, though; he says the butler gave him a dram to cure the shock."

"So he never found Cameron?"

"Aye, he did, after he left Ulysses. Tucked up in his wee white bed, snoring. Next morning, he asked, but Cameron didna recall getting up in the night." He flipped the page over with one finger and glanced at me. "Would the laudanum keep him from remembering?"

"It could do," I said, frowning. "Easily. But it's simply incredible that anyone with that much laudanum in him could have been up marching round in the first place ... unless ..." I cocked a brow at him, recalling Jocasta's remarks during our discussion at River Run. "Any chance your Uncle Hector was an opium-eater or the like? Someone who took a great deal of laudanum by habit would have a tolerance for it, and might not be really affected by Rawlings' dose."

Never one to be shocked by any intimation of depravity among his relatives, Jamie considered the suggestion, but finally shook his head.

"If so, I've heard naught of it. But then," he added logically, "there's no reason anyone would tell me so."

That was true enough. If Hector Cameron had had the means to indulge in imported narcotics-and he certainly had, River Run being one of the most prosperous plantations in the area-then it would have been no one's business save his own. Still, I did think someone might have mentioned it.

Jamie's mind was running on other lines.

"Why would a man leave his house in dead of night to piss, Sassenach?" he asked. "I know know Hector Cameron had a chamber pot; I've used it myself. It had his name and the Cameron badge painted on the bottom." Hector Cameron had a chamber pot; I've used it myself. It had his name and the Cameron badge painted on the bottom."

"Excellent question." I stared down at the page of cryptic scratchings. "If Hector Cameron was having great pain or difficulty-passing a kidney stone, for example-I suppose he might have gone out, to avoid waking the house."

"I havena heard my uncle was an opium-eater, but I havena heard he was ower-mindful of his wife or servants' convenience, either," Jamie observed, rather cynically. "From all accounts, Hector Cameron was a bit of a bastard."

I laughed.

"No doubt that's why your aunt finds Duncan so congenial."

Adso wandered in, the remains of the dragonfly in his mouth, and sat down at my feet so I could admire his prize.

"Fine," I told him, with a cursory pat. "Don't spoil your appetite, though; there are a lot of cockroaches in the pantry that I want you to deal with."

"Ecce homo," Jamie murmured thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the casebook. "A French homo, do you think?" Jamie murmured thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the casebook. "A French homo, do you think?"

"A what?" I stared at him.

"Does it not occur to ye, Sassenach, that perhaps it wasna Cameron that the doctor followed outside?"

"Not 'til this minute, no." I leaned forward and peered at the page. "Why ought it to be anyone else, though, let alone a Frenchman?"

Jamie pointed to the edge of the page, where there were a few small drawings; doodles, I'd thought. The one under his finger was a fleur-de-lis.

"Ecce homo," he said again, tapping it. "The doctor wasna easy in his mind about the man he followed-that's why he didna call him by name. If Cameron were drugged, then it was someone else who left the house that night-yet he doesna speak of anyone else who was present."

"But he might not mention it, unless he'd examined whoever it was," I argued. "He does put in personal notes, but most of this is strictly his case histories; his observations of his patients and the treatments he was administering. But still ..." I frowned at the page. "A fleur-de-lis scribbled in the margin doesn't necessarily mean anything at all, let alone that there was a Frenchman there." Save Fergus, Frenchmen were not at all common in North Carolina. There were some French settlements south of Savannah, I knew-but that was hundreds of miles away.

The fleur-de-lis could could be nothing more than a random doodle-and yet, Rawlings hadn't made such scribbles anywhere else in his book that I recalled. When he added drawings, they were careful and to the point, intended as a reminder to himself, or as a guide to any physician who should come after him. be nothing more than a random doodle-and yet, Rawlings hadn't made such scribbles anywhere else in his book that I recalled. When he added drawings, they were careful and to the point, intended as a reminder to himself, or as a guide to any physician who should come after him.

Above the fleur-de-lis was a figure that looked rather like a triangle with a small circle at the apex and a curved base; below it was a sequence of letters. Au et Aq. Au et Aq.

"A ... u," I said slowly, looking at that. "Aurum."

"Gold?" Jamie glanced up at me, surprised. I nodded.

"It's the scientific abbreviation for gold, yes. 'Aurum et aqua.' Gold and water-I suppose he means goldwasser goldwasser, bits of gold flake suspended in an aqueous solution. It's a remedy for arthritis-oddly enough, it often works, though no one knows why."

"Expensive," Jamie observed. "Though I suppose Cameron could afford it-perhaps he saved an ounce or two of his gold bars, eh?"

"He did say Cameron suffered from arthritis." I frowned at the page and its cryptic marginalia. "Maybe he meant to advise the use of goldwasser goldwasser for the condition. But I don't know about the fleur-de-lis or that other thing-" I pointed at it. "It's not the symbol for any medical treatment for the condition. But I don't know about the fleur-de-lis or that other thing-" I pointed at it. "It's not the symbol for any medical treatment I I know of." know of."

To my surprise, Jamie laughed.

"I shouldna think so, Sassenach. It's a Freemason's compass."

"It is?" I blinked at it, then glanced at Jamie. "Was Cameron a Mason?"

He shrugged, running a hand through his hair. Jamie never spoke of his own association with the Freemasons. He had been "made," as the saying went, in Ardsmuir, and beyond any secrecy imposed by membership in the society, he seldom spoke of anything that had happened between those dank stone walls.

"Rawlings must have been one as well," he said, clearly reluctant to talk about Freemasonry, but unable to keep from making logical connections. "Else he'd not have kent what that is." One long finger tapped the sign of the compass.

I didn't know quite what to say next, but was saved from indecision by Adso, who spit out a pair of amber wings, and sprang up onto the desk in search of more hors d'oeuvres. Jamie made a grab for the inkwell with one hand, and seized his new quill protectively in the other. Deprived of prey, Adso strolled to the edge of the desk and sat on the stack of Jamie's letters, tail waving gently as he pretended to admire the view.

Jamie's eyes narrowed at this insolence.

"Take your furry wee arse off of my correspondence, beast," he said, poking at Adso with the sharp end of his quill. Adso's big green eyes widened as they fixed on the tip of the moving feather, and his shoulder blades tensed in anticipation. Jamie twiddled the quill tantalizingly, and Adso made an abortive swipe at it with one paw.

I seized the cat hastily before mayhem could ensue, lifting him off the papers with a surprised and indignant mirp! mirp! of protest. of protest.

"No, that's his his toy," I said to the cat, and gave Jamie a reproving look. "Come along now; there are cockroaches to attend to." toy," I said to the cat, and gave Jamie a reproving look. "Come along now; there are cockroaches to attend to."

I reached for the casebook with my free hand, but to my surprise, Jamie stopped me.

"Let me keep it a bit longer, Sassenach," he said. "There's something verra odd about the notion of a French Freemason wandering River Run by night. I should like to see what else Dr. Rawlings might have to say when he's speaking Latin."

"All right." I hoisted Adso, who had begun to purr loudly in anticipation of cockroaches, to my shoulder, and glanced out the window. The sun had set to a burning glow beyond the chestnut trees, and I could hear the noise of women and children in the kitchen; Mrs. Bug was starting to lay the supper, helped by Brianna and Marsali.

"Dinner soon," I said, and bent to kiss the top of Jamie's head, where the last of the light touched his crown with fire. He smiled and touched his fingers to his lips and then to me, but he had already gone back to a perusal of the close-written pages by the time I reached the door. The single sheet with its three black words lay at the edge of the desk, forgotten-for the moment.

97

CONDITIONS OF THE BLOOD

I CAUGHT A FLASH OF BROWN outside the door, and Adso shot off the counter as though someone had shouted "Fish!" The next best thing, evidently; it was Lizzie, on her way back from the dairy shed, a bowl of clotted cream in one hand, a butter dish in the other, and a large jug of milk pressed to her bosom, precariously held in place by her crossed wrists. Adso was twining round her ankles like a furry rope, in obvious hopes of tripping her up and making her drop the booty. CAUGHT A FLASH OF BROWN outside the door, and Adso shot off the counter as though someone had shouted "Fish!" The next best thing, evidently; it was Lizzie, on her way back from the dairy shed, a bowl of clotted cream in one hand, a butter dish in the other, and a large jug of milk pressed to her bosom, precariously held in place by her crossed wrists. Adso was twining round her ankles like a furry rope, in obvious hopes of tripping her up and making her drop the booty.

"Think again, cat," I told him, reaching to rescue the milk jug.

"Oh, thank ye, ma'am." Lizzie relaxed, easing her shoulders with a little sigh. "It's only as I didna want to be making two trips." She sniffed and tried to wipe her nose with a forearm, imperiling the butter.

I snatched a handkerchief from my pocket and applied it, repressing the maternal impulse to say, "Now, blow."

"Thank ye, ma'am," she repeated, bobbing.

"Are you quite well, Lizzie?" Without waiting for an answer, I took her by the arm and towed her into my surgery, where the large windows gave me light enough to see by.

"I'm well enough, ma'am. Truly, I'm fine!" she protested, clutching the cream and butter to her as though for protection.

She was pale-but Lizzie was always pale, looking as though she had not a corpuscle to spare. There was an odd pallid look to her skin, though, that gave me an uneasy feeling. It had been nearly a year since her last attack of malarial fever, and she did seem generally well, but ...

"Come here," I said, drawing her toward a pair of high stools. "Have a seat, just for a moment."

Clearly unwilling, but not daring to protest, she sat down, balancing the dishes on her knees. I took them from her and-after a glance at Adso's unblinkingly predatory green gaze-put them in the cupboard for safekeeping.

Pulse normal-normal for Lizzie, that is; she tended always to be a trifle fast and shallow. Breathing ... all right, no catch or wheezing. The lymph glands under the jaw were palpable, but that was not unusual; the malaria had left them permanently enlarged, like the curve of a quail's egg under the tender skin. Those in the neck were enlarged now, too, though-and those I generally could not not feel. feel.

I thumbed an eyelid up, peering closely at the pale gray orb that looked anxiously back. Superficially fine, though slightly bloodshot. Again, though-there was something not quite ... right ... about her eyes, though I couldn't put my finger on what that something might be. Could there possibly be a tinge of yellow to the white? I frowned, turning her head to the side with a hand under her unresisting chin.

"Hullo, there. Everything all right?" Roger paused in the doorway, a very large, very dead bird held nonchalantly in one hand.

"A turkey!" I exclaimed, summoning a warm note of admiration. I liked turkeys, all right, but Jamie and Bree had killed five of the enormous birds the week before, introducing a certain note of monotony into dinner of late. Three of the things were hanging in the smoking shed at the moment. On the other hand, wild turkeys were wily and difficult to kill, and so far as I knew, Roger had never managed to bag one before.

"Did you shoot it yourself?" I asked, coming dutifully to admire the thing. He held it by the feet, and the big cupped wings flapped halfway open, the breast-feathers catching sunlight in iridescent patterns of blackish green.

"No." Roger's face was flushed, from sun, excitement or both, a warm hue spreading under the tanned skin. "I ran it down," he said proudly. "Hit it in the wing with a stone, then chased it and broke its neck."

"Wonderful," I said, with somewhat more genuine enthusiasm. We wouldn't have to pick buckshot out of the flesh while cleaning it, or risk breaking a tooth in the eating.

"It's a lovely bird, Mr. Mac." Lizzie had slid off her stool and come to admire it, too. "Such a fat one as it is! Will I take it and clean it for ye, then?"