Free Outlander Novella [01] The Space Between by Diana Gabaldon

Fraser. Those are my uncle and aunt; my uncle was very close to my father,” he explained. “Almost a brother.”
    He went on saying something else, but Rakoczy wasn’t listening. He grasped the edge of the counter, vision flickering so that the nymph seemed to leer at him.
    Claire Fraser
. That had been the woman’s name, and her husband, James, a Highland lord from Scotland. That was who the young man resembled, though he was not so imposing as … But La Dame Blanche! It was her, it had to be.
    And in the next instant, the goldsmith confirmed this, straightening up from the list with an abrupt air of wariness, as though one of the names might spring off the paper and bite him.
    “That name—your aunt, she’d be? Did she and your uncle live in Paris at one time?”
    “Yes,” Murray said, looking mildly surprised. “Maybe thirty years ago—only for a short time, though. Did you know her?”
    “Ah. Not to say I was personally acquainted,” Rosenwald said, with a crooked smile. “But she was … known. People called her La Dame Blanche.”
    Murray blinked, clearly surprised to hear this.
    “Really?” He looked rather appalled.
    “Yes, but it was all a long time ago,” Rosenwald said hastily, clearly thinking he’d said too much. He waved a hand toward his back room. “If you’ll give me a moment, monsieur, I have a chalice actually here, if you would care to see it—and a paten, too; we might make some accommodation of price, if you take both. They were made for a patron who died suddenly, before the chalice was finished, so there is almost no decoration—plenty of room for the names to be applied, and perhaps we might put the, um, aunt and uncle on the paten?”
    Murray nodded, interested, and, at Rosenwald’s gesture, went round the counter and followed the old man into his back room. Rakoczy put the octofoil salver under his arm and left, as quietly as possible, head buzzing with questions.
    * * *
    Jared eyed Michael over the dinner table, shook his head, and bent to his plate.
    “I’m not drunk!” Michael blurted, then bent his own head, face flaming. He could feel Jared’s eyes boring into the top of his head.
    “Not now, ye’re not.” Jared’s voice wasn’t accusing. In fact, it was quiet, almost kindly. “But ye have been. Ye’ve not touched your dinner, and ye’re the color of rotten wax.”
    “I—” The words caught in his throat, just as the food had. Eels in garlic sauce. The smell wafted up from the dish, and he stood up suddenly, lest he either vomit or burst into tears.
    “I’ve nay appetite, cousin,” he managed to say, before turning away. “Excuse me.”
    He would have left, but he hesitated that moment too long, not wanting to go up to the room where Lillie no longer was but not wanting to look petulant by rushing out into the street. Jared rose and came round to him with a decided step.
    “I’m nay verra hungry myself,
a charaid
,” Jared said, taking him by the arm. “Come sit wi’ me for a bit and take a dram. It’ll settle your wame.”
    He didn’t much want to, but there was nothing else he could think of doing, and within a few moments he found himself in front of a fragrant applewood fire, with a glass of his father’s whisky in hand, the warmth of both easing the tightness of chest and throat. It wouldn’t cure his grief, he knew, but it made it possible to breathe.
    “Good stuff,” Jared said, sniffing cautiously but approvingly. “Even raw as it is. It’ll be wonderful aged a few years.”
    “Aye. Uncle Jamie kens what he’s about; he said he’d made whisky a good many times in America.”
    Jared chuckled.
    “Your uncle Jamie usually kens what he’s about,” he said. “Not that knowing it keeps him out o’ trouble.” He shifted, making himself more comfortable in his worn leather chair. “Had it not been for the Rising, he’d likely have stayed here wi’ me. Aye, well …” The old man sighed with regret and lifted his glass,