#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #OutMARCH25th #goingtowar I was groping in my pocket for a ribbon with which to club Jamie’s queue, when a fresh draft swept through the loft, lifting the oil-cloth and fluttering the papers beneath. I turned to see the source of the breeze, and beheld Germain, swinging off the pulley-rope to come in by the shuttered doors through which bales and kegs could be lowered from the loft to wagons below. “_Bonjour, grand-pere_,” he said, wiping a cobweb off his face as he landed and bowing to Jamie with great formality. He turned and bowed to me, as well. “_Comment ca va, grand-mere_?” “Fi—“ I began automatically, but was interrupted by Jamie. “No,” he said definitely. “Ye’re not coming.” “Please, Grand-da!” Germain’s formality disappeared in an instant, replaced by pleading. “I could be a help to ye!” “I know,” Jamie said dryly. “And your parents would never forgive me if ye were. I dinna even want to know what your notion of help involves, but—“ “I could carry messages! I can ride, ye ken that, ye taught me yourself! And I’m nearly twelve!” “Ye ken how dangerous that is? If a British sharp-shooter didna take ye out of the saddle, someone from the militia would club ye over the head to steal the horse. And I can count, ken? Ye’re no even eleven yet, so dinna be tryin’ it on with me.”
Posted on: Thu, 19 Sep 2013 10:24:31 +0000
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