Diana Gabaldon: Dragonfly In Amber

Claire glanced at him impatiently. The sun was setting behind her, and it made her eyes glow amber, like a wolf’s.

“In that case, I suggest you don’t tell her what you’re up to,” she said, in a tone that made Roger remember that she was chief of staff at a large hospital.

His ears burned, but he stubbornly said, “You can’t very well hide it, if you and I-”

“Not me,” Claire interrupted. “You. I have something else to do.”

This was too much, Roger thought. He pulled the car over without signaling and skidded to a stop at the side of the road. He glared at her.

“Something else to do, have you?” he demanded. “I like that! You’re landing me with the job of trying to entice a drunken sot who will likely assault me on sight, and luring your daughter along to watch! What, do you think she’ll be needed to drive me to hospital after Edgars has finished beating me over the head with a bottle?”

“No,” Claire said, ignoring his tone. “I think you and Greg Edgars together may succeed where I couldn’t, in convincing Bree that Gillian Edgars is the woman I knew as Geillis Duncan. She won’t listen to me. She likely won’t listen to you, either, if you try to tell her what we found at the Institute today. But she’ll listen to Greg Edgars.” Her tone was flat and grim, and Roger felt his annoyance ebbing slightly. He started the car once more, and pulled out into the stream of traffic.

“All right, I’ll try,” he said grudgingly, not looking at her. “And just where are you going to be, while I do this?”

There was a small, shuffling movement alongside as she groped in her pocket again. Then she drew out her hand and opened it. His eye caught the silvery gleam of a small object in the darkness of her palm. A key.

“I’m going to burgle the Institute,” she said calmly. “I want that notebook.”

After Claire excused herself to run her unspecified “errand” – making Roger shudder only slightly – he and Brianna had driven to the pub, but then decided to wait for their supper, since the evening was unexpectedly fine. They strolled down the narrow walk by the River Ness, and he had forgotten his misgivings about the evening in the pleasure of Brianna’s company.

They talked carefully at first, avoiding anything controversial. Then the chat turned to Roger’s work, and grew gradually more animated.

“And how do you know so much about it, anyway?” Roger demanded, breaking off in the middle of a sentence.

“My father taught me,” she replied. At the word “father,” she stiffened a bit, and drew back, as though expecting him to say something. “My real father,” she added pointedly.

“Well, he certainly knew,” Roger replied mildly, leaving the challenge strictly alone. Plenty of time for that later, my girl, he thought cynically. But it isn’t going to be me that springs the trap.

Just down the street, Roger could see a light in the window of the Edgars’s house. The quarry was denned, then. He felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline at the thought of the coming confrontation.

Adrenaline lost out to the surge of gastric juices that resulted when they stepped into the pub’s savory atmosphere, redolent of shepherd’s pie. Conversation was general and friendly, with an unspoken agreement to avoid any reference to the scene at the manse the day before. Roger had noticed the coolness between Claire and her daughter, before he had left her at the cab stand on their way to the pub. Seated side by side in the backseat, they had reminded him of two strange cats, ears laid flat and tails twitching, but both avoiding the eye-locking stare that would lead to claws and flying fur.

After dinner, Brianna fetched their coats while he paid the bill.

“What’s that for?” she asked, noticing the bottle of whisky in his hand. “Planning a rave-up for later on?”

“Rave-up?” he said, grinning at her. “You are getting on, aren’t you? And what else have you picked up in your linguistic studies?”

She cast her eyes down in exaggerated demureness.

“Oh, well. There’s a dance in the States, called the Shag. I gather I shouldn’t ask you to do it with me here, though.”

“Not unless you mean it,” he said. They both laughed, but he thought the flush on her cheeks had deepened, and he was conscious of a certain stirring at the suggestion that made him keep his coat hung over one arm instead of putting it on.

“Well, after enough of that stuff, anything’s possible,” she said, indicating the whisky bottle with a mildly malicious smile. “Terrible taste, though.”

“It’s acquired, lassie,” Roger informed her, letting his accent broaden. “Only Scots are born wi’ it. I’ll buy ye a bottle of your own to practice with. This one’s a gift, though – something I promised to leave off. Want to come along, or shall I do it later?” he asked. He didn’t know whether he wanted her to come or not, but felt a surge of happiness when she nodded and shrugged into her own coat.

“Sure, why not?”

“Good.” He reached out and delicately turned down the flap of her collar, so it lay flat on her shoulder. “It’s just down the street – let’s walk, shall we?”

The neighborhood looked a little better at night. Some of its shabbiness was hidden by the darkness, and the lights glowing from windows into the tiny front gardens gave the street an air of coziness that it lacked during the day.

“This won’t take a minute,” Roger told Brianna as he pressed the buzzer. He wasn’t sure whether to hope he was right or not. His first fear passed as the door opened; someone was home, and still conscious.

Edgars had plainly spent the afternoon in the company of one of the bottles lined up along the edge of the swaybacked buffet visible behind him. Luckily, he appeared not to connect his evening visitors with the intrusion of the afternoon. He squinted at Roger’s introduction, composed on the way to the house.

“Gilly’s cousin? I didn’ know she had a cousin.”

“Well, she has,” said Roger, boldly taking advantage of this admission. “I’m him.” He would deal with Gillian herself when he saw her. If he saw her.

Edgars blinked once or twice, then rubbed an inflamed eye with one fist, as though to get a better look at them. His eyes focused with some difficulty on Brianna, hovering diffidently behind Roger.

“Who’s that?” he demanded.

“Er… my girlfriend,” Roger improvised. Brianna narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing. Plainly she was beginning to smell a rat, but went ahead of him without protest as Greg Edgars swung the door wider to admit them.

The flat was small and stuffy, overfurnished with secondhand furniture. The air reeked of stale cigarettes and insufficiently taken-out garbage, and the remnants of take-away meals were scattered heedlessly over every horizontal surface in the room. Brianna gave Roger a sidelong look that said Nice relatives you have , and he shrugged slightly. Not my fault . The woman of the house was plainly not at home, and hadn’t been for some time.

Or not in the physical sense, at least. Turning to take the chair Edgars offered him, Roger came face-to-face with a large studio photograph, framed in brass, standing in the center of the tiny mantelpiece. He bit his tongue to stifle a startled exclamation.

The woman seemed to be looking out of the photograph into his face, a slight smile barely creasing the corner of her mouth. Wings of platinum-fair hair fell thick and glossy past her shoulders, framing a perfect heart-shaped face. Eyes deep green as winter moss glowed under thick, dark lashes.

“Good likeness, i’n’t?” Greg Edgars looked at the photo, his expression one of mingled hostility and longing.