The twins made identical soft sounds of awe, and looked doe-eyed at their—well, what else could one say? Brianna thought—their son.

“Oh, such dear wee fingers!” Kezzie—or Jo—breathed, touching the little pink fist with a dirty forefinger.

“Is he all there?” Jo—or Kezzie—asked. “Ye’ve looked?”

“I have,” Lizzie assured him. “Here—d’ye want to hold him?” Not pausing for assent, she put the bundle into his arms. Whichever twin it was looked at once thrilled and terrified, and glanced wildly at his brother for support.

Brianna, enjoying the tableau, felt Roger close behind her.

“Aren’t they sweet?” she whispered, reaching back for his hand.

“Oh, aye,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Enough to make ye want another, isn’t it?”

It was an innocent remark; she could tell he had meant nothing by it—but he heard the echo, even as she did, and coughed, letting go her hand.

“Here—that’s for Lizzie.” Claire was handing a plate of fragrant cakes, drizzled with butter and honey, to Jem. “Is anyone else hungry?”

The general stampede in response to this enabled Brianna to hide her feelings, but they were still there—and painfully clear, if still tangled.

Yes, she did want another baby, thank you, she thought fiercely at Roger’s oblivious back. In the instant of holding the newborn child, she wanted it with a yearning of flesh that surpassed hunger or thirst. And she would have loved to blame him for the fact that it hadn’t happened yet.

It had taken a true leap of faith, across the vertiginous abyss of knowledge, for her to put aside her dauco seeds, those fragile pellets of protection. But she’d done it. And nothing. Lately, she’d been thinking uneasily of what Ian had told her about his wife and their struggles to conceive. True, she had suffered no miscarriage, and was profoundly grateful for that. But the part he had told her, where their lovemaking became more mechanical and desperate—that was beginning to loom like a specter in the distance. It hadn’t gotten that bad yet—but more often than not, she turned into Roger’s arms, thinking, Now? Will it be this time? But it never was.

The twins were becoming more comfortable with their offspring, their dark heads pressed close together, tracing the chubby outlines of his sleeping features and wondering aloud who he most resembled, of all idiotic things.

Lizzie was single-mindedly devouring her second plate of hoecakes, accompanied by grilled sausages. The smell was wonderful, but Brianna wasn’t hungry.

It was a good thing that they knew for sure, she told herself, watching Roger take his turn to hold the baby, his dark, lean face softening. If there had still been any doubt that Jemmy was Roger’s child, he would have blamed himself as Ian did, thought there was something wrong with him. As it was …

Had something happened to her? she wondered uneasily. Had Jemmy’s birth damaged something?

Jamie was holding the new baby now, one big hand cradling the round little head, smiling down with that look of soft affection so peculiar—and endearing—to men. She did long to see that look on Roger’s face, holding his own newborn child.

“Mr. Fraser.” Lizzie, filled at last with sausages, put aside her empty plate and leaned forward, looking earnestly up at Jamie. “My father. Does—does he know?” She couldn’t help glancing at the empty doorway behind him.

Jamie looked momentarily disconcerted.

“Ah,” he said, and handed the baby carefully to Roger, clearly taking advantage of the pause to try to think of some less-hurtful way to phrase the truth.

“Aye, he kens the babe was on the way,” he said carefully. “I told him.”

And he had not come. Lizzie’s lips pressed together, and a shadow of unhappiness crossed the new-moon glow of her face.

“Had we—had I—one of us—best go and tell him, sir?” one of the twins asked hesitantly. “That the child’s here, I mean, and … and that Lizzie’s all right.”

Jamie hesitated, clearly uncertain whether that would be a good idea or not. Mr. Wemyss, pale and ill-looking, had not referred to his daughter, his putative sons-in-law, or his theoretical grandchild since the imbroglio surrounding Lizzie’s multiple weddings. Now that the grandchild was a concrete fact, though …

“Whatever he thinks he ought to do,” Claire said, her face slightly troubled, “he’ll want to know that they’re all right, surely.”

“Oh, aye,” Jamie agreed. He glanced dubiously at the twins. “I’m just no entirely sure it should be Jo or Kezzie to tell him, though.”

The twins exchanged a long glance, in which some decision seemed to be reached.

“It should, sir,” one of them said firmly, turning to Jamie. “The baby’s ourn, but it’s his blood, too. That’s a link between us; he’ll know that.”

“We don’t want him to be crosswise with Lizzie, sir,” his brother said, more soft-spoken. “It hurts her. Might be the baby would … ease things, d’ye think?”

Jamie’s face betrayed nothing other than a studied attention to the matter at hand, but Brianna saw him dart a quick glance at Roger before returning his gaze to the bundle in Roger’s arm, and she hid a smile. He had certainly not forgotten his own acrimonious first response to Roger, but it had been Roger’s claiming of Jem that had established the first—and very fragile—link in the chain of acceptance that she thought now bound Roger nearly as close to Jamie’s heart as she herself.

“Aye, then,” Jamie said, still reluctant. He very much disliked being involved in this situation, she could tell—but hadn’t yet succeeded in figuring out any way of dealing with it. “Go and tell him. Just the one of ye, though! And should he come, t’other of ye keep well out of his sight, d’ye hear me?”

“Oh, aye, sir,” both of them assured him in unison. Jo—or Kezzie—frowned a little at the bundle, and hesitantly extended his arms. “Should I—”

“No, don’t.” Lizzie was sitting bolt upright, her arms braced to keep her weight off her tender nether parts. Her small fair brow was set in a frown of determination. “Tell him we’re well, aye. But if he wants to see the bairn—he’ll come, and welcome. But if he’ll no set foot upon my threshold … well, then, he’s no welcome to see his grandson. Tell him,” she repeated, easing herself back upon her pillows.

“Now give my bairnie to me.” She held out her arms, and clutched the sleeping baby to her, closing her eyes against any possibility of argument or reproach.

78



THE UNIVERSAL

BROTHERHOOD OF MAN

BRIANNA LIFTED THE WAXED CLOTH covering one of the big earthenware basins, and sniffed, taking pleasure in the musty, turned-earth smell. She stirred the pale mess with a stick, lifting it out periodically in order to assess the texture of the pulp that dripped from it.

Not bad. Another day, and it would be dissolved enough to press. She considered whether to add more of the dilute sulfuric acid solution, but decided against it, and instead reached into the bowl at her side, filled with the limp petals of dogwood and redbud flowers gathered for her by Jemmy and Aidan. She scattered a handful of these delicately over the grayish pulp, stirred them in, then covered the bowl again. By tomorrow, they’d be no more than faint outlines, but still visible as shadows in the finished sheets of paper.

“I’d always heard that paper mills stank.” Roger made his way through the bushes toward her. “Perhaps they use something else in the making?”

“Be glad I’m not tanning hides,” she advised him. “Ian says the Indian women use dog turds for that.”

“So do European tanners; they just call the stuff ‘pure.’”

“Pure what?”

“Pure dog turds, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “How’s it going?”

Coming up beside her, he looked with interest at her own small paper factory: a dozen big, fired-clay basins, each filled with scraps of used paper, worn-out scraps of silk and cotton, flax fibers, the soft pith of cattail reeds, and anything else she could get her hands on that might be useful, torn to shreds or ground small in a quern. She’d dug out a small seep, and laid one of her broken water pipes as a catch basin, to provide a convenient water supply; nearby, she’d built a platform of stone and wood, on which stood the framed silk screens in which she pressed the pulp.