Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

THE WIG WOULD have been much too large, given Malcolm’s round-headed resemblance to an oversize muskmelon, but Grey’s own hair—yellow and noticeable, as Malcolm had so tactfully noted—was thick, and with it stuffed up inside the wig, the horsehair contrivance sat securely, if uncomfortably. He hoped that Malcolm didn’t suffer from lice but forgot such minor concerns as he made his way through the throngs of people in the street outside La Punta.

There was an air of curiosity in the street; people glanced at the fortress as they passed, clearly sensing some disturbance from its daily routine. But the news had not yet spread; for that matter, Grey wondered whether the news had officially reached the office of the governor—or his sickbed, as the case might be. Neither he nor Malcolm had had any doubt; only the most urgent news would have got the cutter past the boom chain with such dispatch.

The guard at the fortress’s street gate had given him no more than a casual glance before waving him through; as was the case in peacetime, there were nearly as many civilians as soldiers inside the fort, and there were plenty of fair-skinned, blue-eyed Spaniards. The cut of his suit was not in the Spanish style, but it was discreet and sober in color.

He was going to need a horse—that was the first thing. He could walk ten miles, but doing so in his court shoes would be both slow and painful—and making the round-trip of twenty miles on foot…He glanced up at the sky; it was well past noon. Granted, in this latitude, the sun wouldn’t set before eight or nine o’clock, but…

“Why the devil didn’t I ask Stubbs what the word for ‘horse’ is?” he muttered under his breath, threading his way through a district of fragrant market stalls filled with fruit—he recognized plantains, of course, and papayas, mangoes, coconuts, and pineapples, but there were odd dark-green things that he’d not seen before, with pebbly skins, and lighter-green objects that he thought might be custard apples—whatever they were, they smelled delicious. His stomach growled—despite the octopus, he was starving—but then his head snapped round as he smelled something of a distinctly different nature. Fresh manure.



IT WAS VERY LATE by the time he finally returned to Casa Hechevarria that night. A full moon sailed high overhead, and the air was thick with smoke and orange blossom and the smell of slowly roasting meat. He’d eaten in Cojimar easily enough, merely pointing at things in the tiny market square and offering what appeared to be the smaller coins in his pouch, but Cojimar was no more than a sunstruck distant memory, and he was starving again.

He slid off the rented mule, wrapped the creature’s reins over the railing in front of the house, and went to hammer on the door. His arrival had been noticed, though, and soft lantern light flooded out upon him as he came up the shallow wooden steps.

“Is that you, me lord?” Tom Byrd, bless him, stood framed in the open doorway, lantern in hand and round face creased with worry.

“What’s left of me,” Grey said. He cleared his throat, clogged with dust, spat into the flowering bush by the portico, and limped into the house. “Get someone to see to the mule, will you, Tom?”

“Right away, me lord. What’s amiss with your foot, though?” Tom fixed an accusing gaze on Grey’s right foot.

“Nothing.” Grey made his way into the sala, dimly lit by a small candle before a holy picture of some sort—there were things with wings in it, which must be angels—and sat down with a sigh of relief. “The heel of my shoe came off whilst I was helping the mule out of a rocky ditch.”

“He fell into a ditch with you, me lord?” Tom was deftly lighting more candles with a spill and now lifted this in order to examine Grey more closely. “I thought mules was meant to be sure-footed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with his feet, either,” Grey assured him, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment. The candlelight made red patterns on the insides of his eyelids. “I’d stopped for a piss, and he took the opportunity of my inattention to walk down into said ditch, which he did without the slightest difficulty, by the way. There were some of these things growing on the bushes there that he wanted to eat.” Fumbling in his pocket, Grey produced three or four small, smooth green fruits.

“I tried to lure him out with a handful, but he was happy as he was, and eventually I was obliged to resort to force.” Said force being applied by two young black women passing by, who had laughed at Grey’s predicament but then resolved it, one of the women tugging at the reins and addressing the mule in what sounded like deeply pejorative terms while her friend prodded it sternly in the backside with a stick. Grey yawned hugely. At least he’d learned the word for mule—mula, which seemed very reasonable—along with a few other things that might come in handy.

“Is there any food, Tom?”

“Those are guavas, me lord,” Tom said, nodding at the little fruits, which Grey placed on a side table. “You make jelly from ’em, but they maybe won’t poison you if you eat ’em raw.” He’d knelt and got Grey’s shoes off in a matter of seconds, then stood and deftly plucked the battered wig off Grey’s head, viewing it with an expression of deep disapproval. “I mean, if you can’t wait while I go rouse the cook.”

“Don’t do that. It must be past midnight.” Grey dubiously prodded one of the guavas, which seemed unripe—it was hard as a golf ball.

“Never mind, me lord, there’ll be cold stuff in the larder,” Tom assured him. “Oh—” he added, stopping at the door, wig dangling from one hand, “I forgot to say as Her Grace is gone.”

“Her Gr—what? Where the devil has she gone?” Grey sat up straight, all thoughts of food, bed, and sore feet vanishing.

“A note came from a Se?ora Valdez late this morning, me lord, saying as how Mrs. Stubbs and her little girl was both ill with fever and asking would Her Grace please come. So she went,” he added unnecessarily, and vanished, too. “Chingado huevón!” Grey said, standing up.

“What did you say, me lord?” Tom’s voice came from somewhere down the hall.

“I don’t know. Never mind. Get the food, please, Tom. And beer, if there is any.”

A faint laugh, cut off by the muffled thump of a swinging door. He looked round the room, wanting to do something violent, but an ancient cat curled up on the back of a stuffed chair opened its great green eyes and glared at him out of the twilight, disconcerting him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and turned away. So, not only were Olivia and family not headed back to Havana, his mother had decamped—how long ago had she left? She couldn’t have made it to the Valdez plantation before dark; she must be somewhere on the road—and as for Rodrigo and Azeel, God knew where they were. Had they even reached Olivia’s rural hideaway yet?

He strode restlessly to and fro, the stone-tiled floor cool through his stockings. He had no idea in which direction the Valdez plantation lay; how far might it be from Cojimar?