Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (130 page)

She took her hand away from her mouth and let him lead her to a chair, giving Uncle Hal a horrified look as she went. He went a dull red and cleared his throat with a strong
harumph.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, unconvincingly.

Amaranthus breathed for a few moments, her bosom stirring the folds of her pale-blue fichu. She shook her head slightly, as though rejecting the advice of an angel on her shoulder, and clenched her gloved hands upon her knee.

“Do you truly mean you would prefer him to be dead?” she said, in a voice like cut glass. “Is his being a traitor more important than his being your son?”

Hal closed his eyes, his face going blank. Lord John and William exchanged uneasy glances, not knowing what to do.

Hal grimaced slightly and opened his eyes, pale blue and cold as winter.

“He made his choice,” he said, speaking directly to Amaranthus. “I can’t change that. And I would rather have him killed cleanly than captured and executed as a traitor. A good death might be the only thing I still could give him.”

He turned and left the room quietly, leaving no sound but the hissing of the candles burning behind him.

WILLIAM WAS DRESSING
to go down for breakfast the next morning when a frenzied pounding on his door interrupted him. He opened it to see Miss Crabb in her wrapper and curling papers, holding Trevor, who was in a red-faced passion.

“She’s gone off!” the housekeeper said, and shoved the howling child into his arms. “He’s been bellowing for nearly an hour, and I couldn’t stand it, I really couldn’t, so I went down and found
this
!” He hadn’t a hand to spare, but she waved a folded note at him in accusation, then stuffed it between his chest and Trevor, unwilling to suffer its touch any longer.

“Er…you’ve read it?” he asked, as politely as possible, shifting Trev to one arm in order to pluck the note out of his shirtfront.

The housekeeper puffed up like an angry, if scrawny, hen.

“Are you accusing me of impertinence, sir?” she demanded, above the noise of Trevor’s wail of “Mamamamamamamamama!” Then she looked down and noticed that William, who had not assumed his breeches yet, was standing there unshaved and barefoot, in nothing but his shirt. She gasped, turned, and fled.

William was beginning to wonder whether perhaps he hadn’t awakened at all and was in the midst of a nightmare, but Trevor put paid to that notion by biting his arm. He hoicked Trevor onto his shoulder, patted his back in a business-like manner, and carried him downstairs—still shrieking—in search of assistance.

He felt oddly calm, in the way that one sometimes is during nightmares, merely watching as terrible things transpire.

She’s gone.
He hadn’t the slightest doubt that Miss Crabb was right. He couldn’t get beyond the simple fact of Amaranthus’s disappearance, though.
She’s gone.
The part of his mind capable of asking questions and making speculations was either still asleep or shocked into paralysis.

He pushed the door to the dining room open and went in. Lord John was sitting at the table in his purple-striped banyan, dipping toast into the yolk of a soft-boiled egg, but at sight of William and his burden, he dropped the toast and shoved back his chair.

“What the devil’s happened?” he asked sharply, coming to William at once. He reached for Trevor. “Where’s Amaranthus?”

“She’s gone,” William said, and the speaking of the words aloud opened a sudden hollow inside his chest, as though someone had scooped out his heart. He carefully unclenched his hand and dropped the crumpled note on the table. “She left this.”

“Read it,” Lord John said shortly. He had thrust an eggy toast soldier into Trevor’s mouth, magically silencing him, and now sat down, balancing the child on his knee.

Dear Uncle John,
William read, conscious of his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

I
t distresses me beyond Measure to leave you in this Way, but I cannot bear to remain longer. I thought of saying that I was going off to drown myself in the Marshes, but I should not like Trevor to believe his Mother a Suicide—though I should not mind his Grace suffering the Pangs of Conscience in believing he had driven me to such an Expedient.

I have made Arrangement to return to my Father’s House in Philadelphia. I leave my Darling in your Care, knowing that he will be safe with you. It tears my Heart to leave him, but the Journey is not safe. Beyond that, Trevor is the Heir to his Grace’s Estates and Title; he should be brought up with the Knowledge of his Heritage and the Responsibilities that go with it. I trust his Grace to provide that—I trust you to provide the constant Love and Security that a Child requires.

Please believe that I am Grateful
,
beyond my Ability to say, for all your Kindness and Care of me and my Son. I will write as soon as I have reached my Destination.

I will miss you.

I
feel as though I write this farewell with my own Heart’s Blood,

but I remain

Your Niece Amaranthus, Viscountess Grey

Fraser’s Ridge

June 18, 1780

THE MACKENZIES’ ROOM WAS
quiet; the house had gone to bed, and even Adso, who had wandered in and curled up on Brianna’s lap an hour ago, was snoring in a sort of syncopated purr interrupted by small
mirp!
noises as he spotted dream-mice. The noise had roused Roger from his doze; he lay on his side, watching his wife through a pleasant haze of the sleep that had left him, but not gone far.

As with all redheads, the color of her hair depended on the light in which one saw her: brown in shadow, blazing in sunlight, and by the light of a low-burning fire, a fall of changing color, sparked with threads of gold. She was writing, slowly, lifting her quill now and then to frown at the page in search of a word, a thought. Adso stirred, yawned, and began to knead her thighs and belly, claws prickling through her shift and wrapper. She hissed through her teeth and pushed back from the table.

“You leave something to be desired as a muse,” she whispered to the cat, putting down her quill and carefully detaching his claws. She scooped him up, rose, and took him to the bed where Roger lay, curled up in the bedclothes, eyes almost closed. She set Adso down at the foot of the bed and stood back to watch. The cat stretched luxuriously, then—without opening his own eyes—oozed slowly up the bed and curled into the spot between Roger’s face and shoulder, purring loudly.

Roger slid a hand under Adso, picked him up, and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor.

“Are ye coming to bed soon?” he asked sleepily, brushing cat hairs away from his mouth.

“Right now,” she assured him. She shrugged out of her wrapper and tossed it on the floor, where Adso, who had been blinking grouchily, promptly took possession of the nice warm nest thus provided and settled down on it, eyes going back to blissful slits. Brianna blew the candle out; Roger heard the tiny spatter of wax droplets on the tabletop.

“That cat sounds like a motorboat. Why is he in here, anyway? Oughtn’t he to be out in the barn hunting vermin?” Roger lifted the quilts and squirmed back, welcoming her in. It had rained earlier and the night chill of her was delicious. She settled solidly into his arms with a shudder of relaxation, and his hand settled contentedly on her lovely, blooming belly.

“Mama says cats are attracted to people working, so they can get in the way. I guess I’m the only person in the house who was doing anything at this hour.”

“Mmm.” He breathed near her ear. “Ye smell like ink, so ye must have been writing, not drawing. Letters?”

“Nooo…just, you know, thoughts. Maybe something for the kids’ book, maybe not.” She was trying to sound casual, but mention of the
Practical Guide for Time Travelers
brought him to full wakefulness.

“Oh?” he said, cautious. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” she said frankly, “but I’d like to tell you about it. It could wait until morning, though…”

“As if something like coherent conversation happens in the morning around here,” he said, and rolled onto his back, yawning. “All right, tell me.”

“Well…you remember I was thinking about the problem of mass.”

“Dimly, yes. I don’t recall what you decided, though.”

“I didn’t,” she said frankly. “I just don’t know enough—and there are a lot of problems with the hypothesis that I don’t have a way to resolve. But it made me think about what mass
is.
”

“Mmh.” His eyes were closed, but his hand slid down her back and cupped her behind, warm and substantial. He jiggled it, gently. “There’s some. I’m pretty sure that’s mass.”

“Yes. So’s that.” She slid a hand down between them and cupped his testicles. Lightly, but it made him open his eyes.

“Point taken,” he said, and moved his hand to the small of her back. “So?”

“What do you think happens to us when we die?”

That woke him completely, though it took a moment to assemble words.

“When we die,” he said slowly. “If you mean in terms of our souls, the basic truth is that we don’t know, but we do have faith that we’ll go on existing, and we have a pretty good reason for having said faith. But that’s not what you mean, is it?”

“No. I mean bodies. Physically.”

He changed metaphysical gears, not without a small sense of clashing and grinding.

“You mean something other than just…er…decay?”

“Well, no, that
is
what I mean—but kind of…beyond rotting.”

He rolled onto his side and she followed, nestling under his chin, much like Adso, but with better-smelling hair.

“Beyond rotting…this is the kind of thing that keeps you up at night? God, what kind of dreams do you have? You’re the scientist here, but so far as
I
know, the process just goes on…what, dissolving?”

“Dissolution. Yes, exactly.”

“You know, normal people talk about sex in bed, don’t they?”

“Most of them probably talk about what horrible thing their child did during the day, the price of tobacco, or what to do about the sick cow. If they can stay awake. Anyway—I only had the required physics classes in college, so this is pretty basic and it may be completely wrong, and—”

“And nobody will ever be able to prove it one way or the other, so let’s not trouble about that part,” he suggested.

“Good thought. And speaking of smelling…” She turned her head and snuffled gently at his neck. “You smell like gunpowder. You haven’t been hunting, have you?” Her voice held a certain amount of incredulity. Not without reason, but he was slightly nettled.

“I have not. Your da asked me to show
a’ chraobh àrd
how to load his new musket and fire it without knocking his teeth out.”

“Cyrus Crombie?” she said. “Why? Da isn’t conscripting him into his gang, is he?”

“I believe ‘partisan band’ is the proper term,” Roger said primly. “And no. Hiram asked Jamie to take the boy on and teach him to fight—with a gun and dirk, that is. He said if it was a matter of fists, any fisherman could lay a landsman out like a flatfish without half trying—and he’s probably right—but none of the Thurso folk had ever even held a gun before coming here, and most of them still haven’t. They fish, and snare, and trade for meat.”

“Mm. Do you think Hiram made him, or was it Cyrus’s own idea?”

“The latter. He’s courting Frances—in his own inimitable way—but he knows he hasn’t a chance unless your da thinks he’ll make her a good husband. So he means to prove his mettle.”

“How old is he?” Brianna asked, a note of concern in her voice.

“Sixteen, I think,” Roger said. “Old enough to fight, so far as that goes.”

“So far as that goes,” she muttered, huffing a little under her breath, and he knew why.

“Jemmy won’t be old enough to ride with them before the war’s over,” he assured her. “No matter how good he is with a gun.”

“Great. So he can stay and guard the ramparts here with me, Rachel, and Aunt Jenny and the Sachem, while the partisan band—and Mama, because she won’t let Da go alone—and probably
you
—go roaming the countryside, getting their asses shot off.”

“As you were saying about your physics class…?”

“Oh.” She paused to regather her thoughts, a small soft frown between her brows. “Well. You know all about atoms and electrons and that sort of thing?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, there are smaller things than that—subatomic particles—but nobody knows how many or exactly how they work. But while we were hearing about that in class, the instructor said something about how everything—everything in the universe and probably even if there’s more than one universe—everything is made of stardust. People, plants, planets…and stars, I suppose.

“ ‘Stardust’ not being a scientific term,” she added, just in case he’d thought it was. “Just that everything is composed of the same infinitesimal bits of matter.”

“Yes?”

“So what I’m thinking is…maybe that’s what happens when someone steps through a time place. I’m almost sure that it’s an electromagnetic phenomenon of
some
kind, because of the ley lines.”

“Ley lines?” He was surprised. “I wouldn’t think you’d be running into those in a physics class.”

She rolled a little, in order to look up at him. Her breath tickled the hairs on his chest and warmed his neck as she talked. She’d grown warm with talking; he could feel the vibration of words through her back as she spoke. It was curiously arousing.

“ ‘Ley line’ is kind of an informal term, but…you know that the earth’s crust is magnetic, right?”

“I can’t say I did, but I’m willing to take your word for it.”

“You may. And you do know that magnets are directional? Did you play with them as a kid?”

“You mean, positive end, negative end, and if you put the positive ends of two magnets together, they bounce apart? Yes, but what’s that got to do with ley lines?”

“That’s what a ley line
is,
” she said patiently. “The electromagnetism in the earth runs in parallel bands, and the bands alternate in the direction of their magnetic current. Though it’s not totally neat and tidy, of course. They diverge and overlap and like that. Haven’t I told you this stuff before?”

“Possibly.” He abandoned his half-formed amorous intentions, with a sense of regret. “But the ley lines
I
know about are…I don’t know what you’d call them, in terms of classification. Folklore, ancient builder stuff? At least in the British Isles, if you go looking at ancient hill forts and churches that are probably built on much older sites of worship and…well, things like standing stones, you often find that you can draw a straight—very straight, in most cases, as though it had been surveyed—line through two or three or four such sites. Archaeologists call those ley lines—though some folk call them spirit walks, because the dead are thought to…Oh, my God.”

A brief, uncontrollable shudder ran through him.

“Goose walking on your grave?” she asked, sympathy slightly marred by a look of satisfaction.

“Not everybody makes it,” he said, ignoring both sympathy and smugness. He pushed back the covers and sat up. “Through the stones. That’s what you mean? That the people who
don’t
go through, or don’t go through properly, turn up dead on these ley lines, leading to the not-unreasonable supposition that there’s something supernatural going on.”

“I hadn’t heard of spirit walks,” she admitted. “So I can’t say that’s what I mean—but it makes sense, doesn’t it?” She didn’t wait for him to admit it, but went on with her own line of thought.

“So…I’m thinking that the…time places…are maybe spots where different ley lines converge. If so, what happens to the electromagnetism in that spot would be really interesting, and it
might
be what…makes time be accessible? I mean, Einstein’s Unified Field Theory—”

“Let’s leave Albert out of it,” he said hastily. “At least for now.”

“All right,” she said agreeably. “Einstein never got it to work, anyway. All I’m saying is, maybe when you walk into one of those places—if you have the right genetics for it—you, um, die. Physically. You dissolve into stardust, if you want to call it that—and your particles can pass through stone, because they’re smaller than the atoms that make up the stones.”

Roger felt a distinct lurch in his insides at the memory of what it felt like. Being dead wasn’t putting it too strongly, but…

“But we come out again,” he pointed out. “If we die, we don’t stay dead.”

“Well, some of us don’t.” She’d sat up, too, arms curled around her knees. “If we believe Otter-Tooth’s journal and that skunk Wendigo Donner, some of their companions made it through the stones but came out dead. And there are all those incidents in Geillis Duncan’s journal—strange people, often in odd clothes—turning up dead near stone circles.”

“Aye,” he said, with the faint internal squirm that affected him when his green-eyed five-time-great-grandmother was mentioned. “So…you think you have a notion why that doesn’t happen to everybody.”

“I’m not sure it amounts to
that
much,” she admitted. “But it kind of goes along with what you were saying about what Christians believe—that we go on living after death. If you think about what it feels like”—she swallowed—“in there. You feel like you’re coming apart but you’re trying as hard as you can not to; to keep your—your sense of your body, I guess.”

“Yes,” he said.

“So maybe what we are in—there—is the immortal part of us; souls, if you like.”

“As a Christian minister, I like it fine,” he said, trying for some semblance of normality in this conversation. Like it or not, he
was
remembering that spectral cold, and the skin down his arms and legs prickled with gooseflesh. “So…?”

“Well, see, I think that’s maybe where the gemstones come in,” she explained. She moved closer to him, putting a warm hand on his bare and prickling leg. “You know what it feels like when they burn up—when the chemical bonds between their molecules, or maybe their atoms or subatomic particles, are breaking. And when you break a chemical bond, it releases a lot of energy. Since it’s releasing that energy inside our—our clouds of dissolving stuff, maybe…?”