The Ministers Cat is an appreciative cat, she replied, squeezing his hand. Thank you. Theyd likely end up sleeping on their cloaks in front of the McGillivrays fire, instead of cozily tucked up in their own bedbut at least theyd have Jemmy.
He squeezed back, his hand bigger and stronger than hers, very reassuring in the dark.
Its all right, he said. I want him, too. Its a night to have your family all together, safe in one place.
She made a small sound in her throat, acknowledgment and appreciation, but wanted to keep up the conversation, as much to keep the sense of connection with him as because it would keep the dark at bay.
The Ministers Cat was a very eloquent cat, she said delicately. At thethe funeral, I mean. For those poor people.
Roger snorted; she saw the brief curl of his breath, white on the air.
The Ministers Cat was a highly embarrassed cat, he said. Your father!
She smiled, since he couldnt see her.
You did really well, she said mildly.
Mmphm, he said, with another brief snort. As for eloquence if there was any, it was none of mine. All I did was quote bits of some psalmI couldna even tell ye which it was.
It didnt matter. Why did you pickwhat you said, though? she asked, curious. I sort of thought youd say the Lords Prayer, or maybe the Twenty-Third Psalmeverybody knows that one.
I thought I would, too, he admitted. I meant to. But when I came to it He hesitated, and she saw in memory those raw, cold mounds, and shivered, smelling soot. He tightened his grasp on her hand, and drew her closer, tucking the hand into the crook of his elbow.
I dont know, he said gruffly. It just seemedmore suitable, somehow.
It was, she said quietly, but didnt pursue the subject, choosing instead to steer the conversation into a discussion of her latest engineering project, a hand pump to raise water from the well.
If I had something to use for pipe, I could get water into the house, easy as anything! Ive already got most of the wood I need for a nice cistern, if I can get Ronnie to cooper it for meso we can shower with rainwater, at least. But hollowing out tree limbsthe method employed for the small amount of piping used for the pumpit would take me months to manage enough just to get from the well to the house, let alone the stream. And theres not a chance of getting any rolled copper. Even if we could afford any, which we cant, bringing it up from Wilmington would be She threw her free hand up in frustration at the monumental nature of the undertaking.
He considered that for a bit, the chuff of their shoes on the rocky trail a comforting rhythm.
Well, the ancient Romans did it with concrete; the recipes in Pliny.
I know. But it takes a particular kind of sand, which we dont happen to have. Likewise, quicklime, which we likewise dont have. And
Aye, but what about clay? he interrupted. Did ye see that plate at Hildas wedding? The big brown and red one, with the beautiful patterns?
Yes, she said. Why?
Ute McGillivray said someone from Salem brought it. I dinna recall the name, but she said he was quite the big noise in pottingor whatever ye call making dishes.
Ill bet you any amount of money she didnt say that!
Well, words to that effect. He went on, undeterred. The point being that he made it here; it wasnt something hed brought from Germany. So theres clay about thats suitable for firing, eh?
Oh, I see. Hmm. Well, now, thats an idea, isnt it?
It was, and an attractive one whose discussion occupied them for most of the rest of the journey.
They had come down off the Ridge and were within a quarter-mile of the McGillivrays place when she began to have an uneasy feeling down the back of her neck. It could
be only imagination; after the sights they had seen in that deserted hollow, the dark air of the wood seemed thick with threat, and she had been imagining ambush at every blind bend, tensing with the anticipation of attack.
Then she heard something crack in the trees to her righta small dry branch breaking, in a way that neither wind nor animal would break it. Real danger had its own taste, vivid as lemon juice, by contrast with the weak lemonade of imagination.
Her hand tightened on Rogers arm in warning, and he stopped at once.
What? he whispered, hand on his knife. Where? He hadnt heard it.
Damn, why hadnt she brought her gun, or at least her own dirk? All she had was her Swiss Army knife, carried always in her pocketand what weapons the landscape offered.
She leaned into Roger, pointing, her hand close to his body to be sure he followed the direction of her gesture. Then she stooped, feeling about in the darkness for a rock, or a stick to use as a club.
Keep talking, she whispered.
The Ministers Cat is a fraidy cat, is she? he said, his tone one of fairly convincing teasing.
The Ministers Cat is a ferocious cat, she replied, trying to match his bantering tone, meanwhile fumbling one-handed in her pocket. Her other hand closed on a stone, and she pulled it free of the clinging dirt, cold and heavy in her palm. She rose, all her senses focused on the darkness to their right. Shell freaking disembowel anything that