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Chapter Text

Milord had entrusted Fergus with an important document and instructed him to get it safely to Lallybroch. And Fergus hated the thought of disappointing Milord. But there was something going on—he could see it in Milord’s eyes, in the way he looked at Milady—and he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew what it was, why he looked so scared and determined. It couldn’t just be the approaching battle though anyone with eyes could see it didn’t look to go in the Scots’ favor. Milord had bid him to ride Donas—a treat and a responsibility meant to ensure he’d do as he’d been instructed—as though either would be more compelling than Milord simply making a request, as though either would be more compelling than his own need to see that Milord and Milady were all right.

He rode Donas a ways towards Lallybroch, glancing back to be sure they weren’t watching. Then he’d stopped and let Donas graze for a bit, waiting and calculating. He couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what might happen to them in his absence. They were the first people he’d ever known to care for him—to care about him—who didn’t want anything from him. Sure, he’d acted as a servant, especially in Paris when Milord had need of his light fingers, but in the almost two years since finding his way into Milord’s employ, he’d felt how completely things had shifted and understood that if they asked him to carry out simple chores or carry messages, it was because he longed for that sense of responsibility, that the formality was easier to admit to than what lay beneath. It pained him to have to disobey Milord’s wishes but it would pain him more to leave them behind when he sensed something worse was coming for them.

When he felt he’d waited long enough—that he could slip back safely and find them without being noticed—he turned back for the camp. By the time he reached the point where he’d left them, they were long gone and he couldn’t find anyone who had seen more than the vague direction they had gone—but everyone seemed certain they had left the camp on some errand or other.

Fergus couldn’t bear to abandon Donas, nor was it feasible for him to take the beast with him (he was far too noticeable); there was also the matter of the paperwork Milord needed safely sent to Lallybroch—though he might disobey Milord’s instructions as regarded himself, Fergus would still see the task carried out.

Luckily, there was another man whom he recognized as someone Milord had spoken to when they’d first arrived. He brought the horse over, relieved when Donas and the man appeared to recognize one another.

“Do you know the way to Broch Tuarach?” he inquired, struggling to place the guttural noises where they belonged in his pronunciation. “Milord has a message the he needs carried to his family there and seeks someone to take it for him. As you see, he can provide a horse for this messenger. Would you be able to do this or can you please point me in the direction of someone who is able?”

The man was older and stooped. He glanced Fergus over, his mouth twisting one way and then the other as he considered the lad and his request.

“Aye, I ken how te get a message to Lallybroch,” he assured Fergus, his eyes narrow. “I dinna ken what ye’re about lad. Seems to me ye’re Jamie’s errand boy and he’d be best te send ye yersel’ if he wanted it done right.”

Fergus flushed and the man softened, presumably because he thought Fergus was afraid of taking Donas so far on his own. He grabbed the sealed pages from Fergus and tucked them into what was left of his coat then reached for the horse’s reins. “On wi’ ye then. Tell his lairdship that Ol’ Alec will see his message reaches his kin safe.”

Without Donas’ bulk, Fergus was able to slip through the encampment with ease but he would have a difficult time of catching up to Milord and Milady on foot—there was no way to escape the necessity of that though. And once he set out in the general direction they’d last been seen heading, it proved easier than he’d expected to pick up their trail as the ground was soft and aside from the larger movements of the armies themselves, there were few who had traveled in the direction they had. Fergus wasn’t much of a tracker outside of overcrowded Paris, but even he could follow the hoof prints of the horse that carried both Milord and Milady away from Culloden.

The sun was sinking fast and he thought he’d need to find an out of the way place to sleep—and either go hungry or scrounge about for some nuts or berries that might quiet the rumbling of his stomach though he doubted anything he managed would succeed in silencing it altogether. Then he spotted the small cottage and the horse tied up outside. He dropped to the ground and lay flat until he was sure that Milord and Milady must be inside where they couldn’t see him.

He approached from the side opposite the horse so the beast wouldn’t get restless and alert them—whatever was going on, he knew Milord was always alert to such things. It was a cool night but the stones of the fireplace had warmed in the sun during the day and retained a bit of residual heat—or maybe they’d lit a fire inside and that was what kept him warm. He couldn’t be sure and as he curled up and drifted off to sleep, he didn’t care—he only cared that he was near Milord and Milady where he belonged.

The rumblings of his empty stomach roused him before dawn. He could smell something cooking but it was a ways off—not inside the cabin. He sat upright and crawled around the perimeter, keeping low and out of sight. The ground rose gradually nearby towards a hill but if he went too far up he might be too exposed. He clung to the shadows of the trees along the way and found one with branches low enough for him to scramble up and into their cloud cover.

Smoke in the distance caught his eye. Between the wisps of grey he saw a flash of red. English solders. They were moving, dousing their fire and preparing to move. They were too far away to see their actions clearly but suddenly there was a cluster of them and several broke off moving towards the cabin—one of them had spotted Milord’s horse. Fergus scrambled down from the tree as best he could, praying he could reach the cabin and warn Milord and Milady before the soldiers reached them—though there was little that advanced warning could do as far as helping them. There were too many soldiers and nowhere for them to go. Fergus had made it to the bottom of the tree when he spotted Milady at the back of the cabin as Milord screamed to her to run, heading out to the other side of the building himself to confront the soldiers.

Torn between the two, Fergus spotted one of the soldiers break away from the group and chase after Milady as she ran up the hill. Milord would want Milady protected above all things. Taking the small blade he had tucked away in his boot, Fergus scrambled up the hillside after Milady.

The soldier who was chasing her was close but Fergus was faster. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his knife and instead dropped it as he tackled the man around his legs. Milady hadn’t noticed as Fergus and the soldier rolled on the ground, the soldier’s knee catching Fergus in the jaw. He bit his lip and tongue hard, tasting blood. The soldier didn’t seem to know what had got him and was flailing his legs to free himself without losing hold of his musket. Fergus dodged the butt of the musket, rolling away from the soldier who was still searching for the source of his trouble.

Fergus spotted rocks up ahead and moved to duck behind them. If he could taunt the soldier and distract him, he could buy Milady some time to run away. As he scanned the circle of stones, however, Milady was nowhere to be found. He had to know where she was so he could lead the soldier in another direction.

Darting across the circle to the largest, cracked stone, he moved to brace himself against it and felt a deep shuddering in his bones. He couldn’t remove his hands as the vibrations rattled through him, the teeth in his jaw chattering as he screamed in pain and terror.

He felt himself hit the ground but didn’t remember falling—only screaming. He was quiet now as the shaking gradually eased and the pounding in his head ebbed.

His first thought was that the soldier must have shot him—it was the only explanation for the pain that radiated through his middle and the echoing of the shot must have been the source of the ringing in his ears.

“Fergus?!” he heard Milady exclaim before coming to crouch over him—that more than anything settled him on the conclusion that he’d been shot.

“You must tell Milord I am sorry to have disobeyed,” Fergus begged of her as she ran her hands over him, searching for the bullet wound. “I did find another to take Donas and the message to Lallybroch. I did not disregard him entirely—only, I could not leave you with Milord acting as strangely as he was.”

Milady was crying for him, pulling him up so she could cradle him against her as he died. She trembled and sobbed and kept calling for Jamie, clinging tightly to Fergus who was slowly beginning to realize that the pain was fading but his senses were returning, that the fuzziness and confusion in his head was clearing—that he wasn’t, in fact, dying.

Milady’s tears eventually calmed and she loosened her grip on Fergus, simply sitting unmoving and inspiring a whole new fear in Fergus. Perhaps the soldier had thought—as Fergus had—that he’d successfully shot and killed him. How long would it be before the soldiers moved on? Perhaps they already had. He and Milady should move on to the cabin and wait there for Milord to return.

“Milady, please. We must move before they return. Milord will come looking for you soon,” he implored, rising and attempting to pull her to her feet.

“He’s not coming, Fergus. He’s not here. We’re… not there… anymore,” she murmured.

He furrowed his brow in confusion but his stomach grumbled with renewed hunger before he could ask what she meant.

The sound of the boy’s hunger caused Claire to jerk to attention, enabled her to put aside her own pain—or rather, the lethargic numbness that spread out from her chest—and gave her something external to focus on.

“You’re hungry,” she remarked, pushing up from her knees and looking around, glaring at the cracked stone. “The road is near here. We can follow it until we find someone and can check exactly when we are. You’re not hurt are you? I don’t think you broke anything coming through.”

“My head it is ache, Milady,” he said, rubbing at the base of his skull where the throbbing had been centralized.

“Please… you mustn’t call me that anymore,” she begged him as she took the first tentative steps out of the stone circle and towards the downward slope of the hill. “Claire… you must call me Claire or… mother or something of that nature.”

“Mother Claire,” he said quietly, silently thrilling to the sound of it. “Where will we go? Why would Milord not come for us?”

He had been following her but stopped abruptly.

“Mila—Mother Claire… what is that?”

He had never seen stone so dark or flat or spread so carefully before. It stretched into the distance to either side of them as they approached the bottom of the hill, disappearing into the horizon.

“It’s a road,” she assured him. “We must be in at least the twentieth century.”

Chapter Text

Fergus panicked and clung to Claire when the first car came round a bend in the road and he remained effectively glued to her side for the next two days. The driver had room in the back for the pair of them and kept looking at Claire in the rearview mirror as she kept an arm wrapped around Fergus’ shoulders, calming him and explaining the situation as best she could in French. His youth proved an asset as far as his ability to believe about the stones somehow being a pathway through time and he began questioning her about the intervening two hundred years he had missed. Luckily, their good Samaritan driver had no French.

By the time they reached the hospital, Fergus had exhausted himself and passed out in the back seat with his head resting in Claire’s lap, leaving her to deal with the doctors and authorities. She refused to let them examine Fergus until the boy woke and demanded they let her be present in the room to keep him calm and explain what was happening.

“He’s never had this kind of physical exam before. He’ll need vaccinations and inoculations as well,” she tried to inform the doctors and nurses as they pushed to let them examine her.

“Are ye the boy’s mother?” one doctor eyed her judgmentally.

“Adoptive mother of sorts, yes,” she told them. “He’s been in my care for about a year.”

“Is he an orphan from the war? Do ye have the papers for his transfer from France to Britain?” the doctor asked while a nurse looked through the pile of clothes containing Claire’s bodice, stays, and over skirts. The nurse examined each article delicately, rolling her eyes at the doctor’s absurd question—the fact that there was something odd about the woman and the boy was obvious simply from their clothing.

“There is no paperwork, no. He has learned a bit of English but hasn’t had any formal schooling.”

“You must let us examine you first then, Mrs. Randall—”

“Please,” she interrupted abruptly, bristling at the name before stopping herself, taking a deep breath, and continuing in a gentler tone, “Claire. Please… call me Claire.” She had given the doctors her name and requested that someone contact Mrs. Graham or the Reverend Wakefield. She knew someone would end up calling Frank but couldn’t bear to think about him right now; she could hardly bear to think of Jamie either, so instead she kept her attention and thoughts entirely on Fergus.

“Claire then,” the doctor conceded. “And the boy?”

“He is called Fergus.”

“Not very French,” the doctor chuckled.

“He prefers it to the name he had in France; he was… ill-used there. He’s had a bit of a fresh start since… since he’s come into my care,” Claire rambled as she finally submitted to a physical examination.

When it was over, they wouldn’t let her sleep in a chair at Fergus’ bedside so she insisted they put them in a room together that she might be there if and when he needed her in the night. If he had not been so exhausted, he likely would have been as restless as she was. All of the noises of the twentieth century that she’d learned to do without had replaced the background noise of the eighteenth century, leaving her disquieted. She dozed but starting frequently as nurses with carts passed the room, orderlies pushing other patients, visitors passing through on their way to visit loved ones. They wouldn’t admit Mrs. Graham when she arrived but the nurses gave Claire the change of clothes the woman had brought for her.

Eventually the nurses came to Claire informing her that her husband had been contacted and would be arriving in a few hours. She requested someone sit with Fergus while she was allowed to bathe and dress.

Fergus woke as she returned to the room.

“Mother Claire,” he said quietly, shrinking from the nurse and turning his frightened smile to Claire.

“It’s all right Fergus,” Claire soothed, taking the nurse’s place at his bedside. She switched to French, which several on the staff understood but not with the fluency—or eighteenth century idioms—that she and Fergus used. “We’re in a hospital and the doctors are going to give you a physical exam, a bath, some new clothes, and something to eat. I won’t leave your side, I promise. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Fergus submitted reluctantly to the doctors’ examination and eyed them with suspicion as they declared him to be in good physical health. Claire held his hand and walked him through the first series of injections that the doctors administered. The bath he loved, sitting in the hot water until his skin glowed pink and his fingertips had wrinkled like raisins—twice he pressed Claire to turn the hot water tap back on to reinvigorate the temperature of his bath. He found the food a bit odd and tasteless but compared to what they’d managed to get during those last weeks of the Rising campaign it was all wonderfully welcome. They were unable to coble together a decent suit of clothes for the boy and he clung to those he came in until Claire convinced the medical staff to let him keep and wear his shirt.

“What are you wearing mil—Mother Claire?” Fergus corrected himself when they were alone and he was tucked into bed once more.

She looked down at the sweater vest she wore overtop a loose white blouse—the cuffs were loose around the wrists where she too had lost weight in those last weeks, but as Jamie had remarked before they parted, her breasts had already begun to fill out as they had in the early stages of her pregnancy with Faith. She had yet to tell Fergus though she had mentioned it briefly to the physician during her exam, evading further discussion of the subject until the man had taken her hint and dropped the matter. The skirt she wore fell to the middle of her calf and she was surprised by how exposed she felt with so much of her stocking-clad legs showing.

“These are the clothes people wear in this time,” she told Fergus sitting on the edge of his bed and reaching to turn off the lamp. When he first woke up she had waited to alert the nurses until he’d worked through a cursory exploration of the room and its modern technologies including switching the lights on and off several times and tuning the radio, grimacing at the music it emitted as he shook his head.

Fergus shrugged and settled down in the bed. “Where will we go, Mother Claire? What will we do without Milord?”

Claire swallowed hard and blinked back tears, fingering the silver ring on her right hand before answering, “I don’t know yet, Fergus. But we’ll stick together, you and I. That I promise you.”

Reassured, the boy drifted back to sleep. When he was safely out, Claire rose from the bed and crossed to the window and watched with an eye to the front doors below. The light of day faded—it really hadn’t been a full twenty-four hours yet since she had parted from Jamie and yet it had also been two hundred years. At the moment, it felt more like two hundred years than fourteen or fifteen hours. A car pulled up in front of the hospital and a man emerged. From the way he moved she knew it must be Frank and her breath caught in her chest. She glanced back at Fergus still asleep on the bed before heading for the door.

Their room was right across from the floor’s main desk so the nurse looked up as soon as Claire stepped out into the hallway.

“Mrs. Randall,” the young woman exclaimed getting up from her chair and moving around the desk to reach for Claire as though she needed help simply standing—although, the prospect of seeing and speaking to Frank again did have her feeling a little wobbly. “Is there something I can do to help ye, ma’am?”

“I uh… I believe my… my husband,” she stumbled over using the word to refer to Frank, “I believe he’s just arrived downstairs and… I don’t want him to disturb Fergus—he’s just gone to sleep.”

“I’ve no had word from downstairs yet, ma’am, but if Mr. Randall is come to see ye there’s an empty room just over this way where ye can have a bit of privacy between ye,” the nurse reassured her and led her across to a small waiting area with chairs. She urged Claire to sit. “Let me fetch ye some tea, then.”

Claire nodded and the young woman disappeared into a room behind the main desk where Claire heard her fumbling around with a kettle and a hot plate. She emerged from the room only for a moment when the phone rang. Her eyes met Claire’s from where she sat, nodding to her and confirming Claire’s suspicions. Claire promptly began fidgeting with Jamie’s silver ring again, twirling it around on her finger nervously as she waited.

Frank didn’t notice Claire as he bounded up the stairs and strode towards the nurse at the desk.

“I’m here to see my wife,” he said loudly. “Claire Randall, where is she?”

A doctor passing through the hallway overheard and approached even as the nurse explained that Claire was waiting for him.

“Mr. Randall,” the doctor interrupted. “I’m Dr. Grant, your wife’s physician since she came to us early this morning.”

“How is she? I must see her,” Frank demanded, both the men ignoring the nurse who looked past them to where Claire sat waiting.

Claire wanted to smile at the younger woman, to show she understood—and she did—but seeing Frank again she was struck anew by his resemblance to Black Jack and her hands clenched the arms of the chair in which she sat. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths, reminding herself that Frank wasn’t Black Jack—wasn’t even the direct descendant he believed himself to be. She forced the images of Mary Hawkins and Alex Randall to her mind—both of them so sweet and caring and physically fragile but strong beneath it all. Thinking of them, she was able to loosen her grip on the chair and push herself up.

“Ah, Mrs. Randall. What are ye doing out of yer room?” the doctor scolded lightly. “Ye should be resting in bed right now.”

“Claire,” Frank breathed before crossing to her rapidly and flinging his arms around her, drawing her to his chest. “Claire, you’ve… you’ve come back,” he whispered quietly.

His voice might have been weak but his arms about her were strong. She closed her eyes and stood stiff within his embrace.

“Frank,” she muttered, unable to think of anything more to say and unwilling to raise her arms to return his gesture.

“The boy is doing well too,” the doctor chimed in, clearly unaware of the larger situation.

“Boy? What boy?” Frank asked pulling back.

“Fergus. His name is Fergus,” Claire stammered.

Frank’s brow contracted in confusion and the doctor seemed to have realized that he’d surprised Frank. The nurse stepped in.

“There’s a room free just over here,” she explained, guiding Frank towards the door. Claire followed wrapping her arms over her chest and holding herself. “We dinna want to wake the lad and the two of ye ought to have some privacy.” She glanced over her shoulder at the doctor. “The pot of tea will be ready shortly and I’ll see if I can rustle up something more to go with it.”

She shot a sympathetic look to Claire before pulling the door closed behind her.

“What’s this about a boy?” Frank pressed. “Where have you been these last few years?” He tried to rub a reassuring hand on her arm but she shrugged away from him. As she turned away she wasn’t fast enough to escape the look of hurt that crossed his features. She moved to the window.

“You probably won’t believe me,” she cautioned him before raising a brow and shrugging to her reflection in the window. “I’m not sure I care,” she added quietly.

“Claire, it doesn’t matter to me where you were,” Frank insisted. She heard his footsteps approaching behind her—slow, like he was afraid to spook her. “What matters is that you’re here now and we can… we can fix this… we can figure it out—have a fresh start.” She flinched at his words and the footsteps stopped.

“The hill at Craigh na Dun… I went there that morning to see the flowers,” she murmured.

“I remember,” Frank said quietly behind her. “I should have gone with you that morning. If I’d—”

“You wouldn’t have been able to stop it,” she interrupted. “I touched the stone and… passed through time. I found myself in 1743.”

“And you couldn’t get back,” Frank filled in hesitantly.

“Not at first… and then… I didn’t want to.” Her voice was flat and honest. She couldn’t hear or see him but she knew what she would find written on Frank’s face if she turned around so she kept her attention on her reflection in the window. “I built a life there—then—a good one… with a man I love.”

“If it was so good then why did you bother coming back?” Frank hissed behind her. “And where does that boy come into it?”

“You believe me then? That I traveled through time?”

“It makes as much sense as you leaving me in the first place,” he said with obvious hurt in his voice, surprising her into turning. “If you could do that—willingly—I can believe just about anything.”

“I didn’t willingly go… but I did willingly stay. And coming back…” She hesitated, her right hand drifting to her lower abdomen. “It was the Rising and… Culloden… I promised my hu—Jamie—that I would. He… he died… on the battlefield… It was that or… or face execution by the English… There was no way for him to escape… but me… I could get through the stones… And apparently Fergus could too—he followed me and now… now he’s the one stuck out of his time.”

Frank stood with his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Fergus?”

Claire nodded. “We found him in France. He was… picking pockets and living in the brothel where he was born. Jamie brought him home and…”

“And now you want me to take him into our home?” Frank asked with a slight edge to his voice—disbelief? disgust?

She wasn’t sure but it made her snap back. “I’m not asking you to do anything—for him or for me. I’m not looking to pick up where we left off, Frank.”

“You… you’re leaving me? Again?” Frank asked.

Claire could see the tears in his eyes and the tremor in his limbs as he struggled to remain composed.

“I’m not… I’m not going anywhere—I don’t know yet just what I’ll do. But I can’t pretend like it never happened, Frank—I won’t.” Claire fought to speak through the rising lump in her throat.

“The boy. He remembers this… Jamie,” Frank said quietly.

“Yes. And Fergus is my responsibility,” she insisted.

Frank nodded subtly. “Then… he’ll be welcome… in our home. He will be a part of our family. Why… why not?” he asked as he saw Claire shaking her head slowly.

“It won’t be like it was before,” she protested.

“I know that—I can… accept that,” Frank tried to convince her—convince himself.

“No, Frank,” Claire persisted. “You can’t—and you shouldn’t.”

“Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?” His voice came out strangled and the tears he’d been holding back spilled over but he remained rigid in his posture, willing himself to keep as composed as possible.

“I’m saying… I don’t love you the way that I did. I don’t love you the way that I should—the way you deserve,” she clarified.

“And Fergus… he’ll be enough for you?” There was doubt in his voice, protecting Frank’s last bit of hope.

Claire took a deep breath. “I don’t have just Fergus,” she answered quietly, raising her hand to her belly once more. “I’m pregnant.” At his gasp, she dropped her gaze. “I’m carrying Jamie’s child.”

His breathing was erratic and he made noises of disappointment and frustration that caused her to wince. When she looked up again, she saw how broken he was, trembling with grief and barely contained fury.

“I’m… so sorry, Frank. I never meant to hurt you like this,” she whispered.

She wanted to leave him alone without a witness but thought he deserved to be the one to leave, to walk out on her—it was the least she could do for him. So she stood and waited and after a few minutes, Frank had gotten himself under control enough to bid her a stilted farewell and leave. He left the door open in his wake and the nurse popped her head in a moment later.

“I uh… I have yer tea, ma’am and found a few chocolate biscuits to go with it,” she remarked, a tray in her hands. “I brought twa cups thinking yer… well… I suppose not.”

“Thank you,” Claire said stepping forward and taking the tray from her. “I’ll bring it back to the room for now. Fergus will enjoy the biscuits when he wakes.”

“Will he—yer husband that is—be back in the morning?” the nurse inquired gently.

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Have ye anyone ye can stay with when the doctor decides ye’re fit to be released?”

“I… There are a few people I can try reaching out to… At least… until I can find a way to get back on my feet,” Claire said. “I don’t suppose there are any nursing positions open here,” she said in a lighthearted manner that could easily be dismissed as a joke.

“Were ye a nurse during the war?” the younger woman inquired.

“Yes. I served in France near the front lines.”

“Well, we do have one of our nurses getting married soon,” the other remarked with a tilt of her head. Lowering her voice she added, “I couldna help overhearing about the um… the wee bairn ye’re expecting. It shouldna be a problem for some time yet and then ye’ll be wanting to make other arrangements, no doubt. But I’ll put in a word for ye with my supervisor if ye like.”

“Would you?” Claire felt tears rolling down her face as everything hit her at once. The tray in her hands began to shake.

The nurse took it from her again and set it down on the seat Claire had occupied while waiting for Frank.

“Aye, I will. Now you get on in there and get into bed. I’ll carry this in for ye but I want ye to rest yerself proper like.”

“Thank you,” Claire managed to say as they slipped quietly into the room where Fergus slept on. “Claire… Beauchamp,” she introduced herself. “I suppose I ought to go by my maiden name again. But I’d like for you to call me Claire.”

“Nurse Donalson—but you can call me Greer,” the young woman told Claire as she poured her tea. “I’ll leave this with ye now and come back for the tray later in my rounds. And ye’d best be lying in bed there asleep when I do.” She gave Claire a reassuring smile as she drifted out of the room and gingerly closed the door.

The mere presence of food in the room proved to be enough to rouse Fergus. He soon slipped from his bed and padded over to where Claire was seated in hers with the tray on the small table between the two beds. She smiled and handed him one of the biscuits and then another as he devoured the first before she could even take up her teacup once more.

“What will happen to us, Mother Claire?” he asked as he licked the crumbs from his lips.

“I’m beginning to figure things out,” she told him warmly. “We’ll be all right,” she assured him. “All three of us.”

“Trois?” Fergus asked, mouth agape.

She ran her hand over her flat belly and nodded. “Oui. Trois.”

Fergus dusted the crumbs from his fingers and reached out tentatively, looking to Claire and receiving encouragement before resting his hand where hers had been.

“For Milord… I promise I will protect you and his child,” Fergus vowed. “In his stead, I will do this.”

“We will take care of each other,” Claire corrected Fergus, setting her cup aside and pulling him into an embrace. “We will be all right.”

Chapter Text

It did not take long for Fergus to ingratiate himself with the nurses at the hospital and in many ways their attention to him reminded him of the ladies at the brothel where Milord had found him in Paris. They were gentler with him than with their other patients and hardly a shift passed without one or another of them passing him an extra helping of whatever dessert was on the menu.

Still, he kept close to Mother Claire as he adjusted to the sights, sounds, and smells of what she assured him was still Scotland but Scotland two hundred years in the future. When the floor went quiet at night and they were alone in their room, she told him about how she had come from this Scotland to the hill with the stones, falling through time to meet Milord.

“I don’t know how they work precisely,” she explained as best she could. “And I didn’t realize that you would be able to… to tagalong with me this time—though I’m glad to have you here and I know Milord would be relieved to know you’re safe,” she assured him before pausing to take a deep breath. She still did that whenever she thought or spoke about Milord though Fergus had noticed that it didn’t take her as long to recover herself and she cried less frequently than she had.

“Can we not go back there?” Fergus asked. “The battle…”

“Is already lost,” she asserted quietly. “I’m so sorry, Fergus… There’s nothing we can do but… but live… and remember them. Milord… Murtagh… All of them. We’re safe here. I just need to arrange a few things and we’ll be able to leave the hospital and… settle into something. It’s a bit late in term for you this year and you’ll need time to catch up with the other boys your age, but I’d like to put you in school in the fall.”

“Schooling?” Fergus blinked with disbelief and hesitation.

“Yes, school. École... Apprendre... I think that’s something that Milord would have wanted for you, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for him to respond—Milord hadn’t said anything about what, if anything, he intended to do about Fergus’ education.

Mother Claire ran a hand through his unruly hair. The nurses had debated cutting it ultimately refraining though Fergus was uncertain whether that decision was rooted in his objections or the nurses’ reluctance to trim such exuberant curls.

There was a knock on the door and a nurse appeared leading an older woman into the room.

“Mrs. Randall?” The woman looked to Mother Claire.

“Mrs. Graham,” she exclaimed with happy surprise. “Please, just call me Claire for now.”

“As ye wish,” Mrs. Graham nodded. “The Reverend did say he spoke with yer husband… But let’s no get into that just now. This is the lad then?” She nodded to Fergus and stepped further into the room.

Mother Claire grinned and encouraged Fergus to join her. He gladly leaned into her as he evaluated the woman before them.

“Fergus, this is Mrs. Graham. She’s housekeeper for an old friend.” He noticed the fleeting glance between the women at the mention of this friend and tucked it away for further consideration later. “Can you say hello?”

He looked to Claire for a moment before bowing his head to Mrs. Graham. “Bonjour, madame.”

“Ye’re a charmer, aren’t ye,” Mrs. Graham said with a warm smile that inspired Fergus to relax. “Do ye mind if I speak with yer mam for a few minutes? I brought along a car for ye to play with—Roger heard the Reverend and Frank talking and when he heard about the lad, he wanted him to have it.”

The woman handed Fergus a small metal thing with four wheels. He recognized it from the window.

“Mother Claire and I rode in one of these,” he remarked to Mrs. Graham. “Évidemment it was much larger.”

Mrs. Graham’s smile stayed put but some of its warmth was replaced with confusion. Fergus swallowed as he realized he’d made an error. He glanced to Mother Claire who gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed him to her.

“You are absolutely right, Fergus. A much larger one. And we’ll ride in another soon—if you’re up for it,” she said patiently.

“I should like that,” he told her and turned back to Mrs. Graham who had recovered from her surprise. “I did not see so much the last time—I fell asleep and did not wake until we had arrived at l’hopital. The movement it was…” He turned to Claire, uncertain what to call it.

“It was a smooth ride,” she helped him out. “Now, I think the best place to play with this would be over there along the wall,” she pointed to the far side of the room. “See if you can get it to roll all the way from one side to the other on one push. Do you think you can do that?”

He tested a wheel with his finger. It didn’t take much to have it spinning. He grinned at Mother Claire and scurried across the room to give the two women the illusion of privacy, all the while keeping his ears open as he played with the toy Mrs. Graham had given him, intentionally and noisily crashing it a few times.

“Lads are all the same,” Mrs. Graham remarked as they watched Fergus send the car colliding with the leg of the bed so that it ricocheted back towards the wall. “They canna wait to smash two things together and if one breaks, well, then they’ve something to do in the fixing of it.”

Claire watched Fergus playing but Mrs. Graham’s words conjured images of the battle she knew had been fought and lost in the week since they’d passed through the stones. It wasn’t just young boys who smashed things together and when it came to fixing what was broken…

“There’re more toys for the lad—Fergus ye said his name is?” Mrs. Graham sought to clarify.

Claire nodded.

“Toys for him and clothes for the both of ye. There were donations coming in to the manse before the Reverend even had need to comment on it of a Sunday,” Mrs. Graham told her. “The story in the paper—the mention of the boy particularly—folk around here remember well enough what it was like a few years back. Times aren’t what they were before the war but they’ve improved enough for them to share what they have with those…”

“With those less fortunate?” Claire finished with a gentle smile. She didn’t want Mrs. Graham to feel she needed to censor herself. “Well, Fergus and I are grateful to everyone for what’s been donated. I hope to start working here at the hospital myself within a few weeks—once we’re settled somewhere nearby.”

Her hand slipped to her stomach. How long would she be able to keep the nursing position before the administrators let her go again or forced her into a post where her growing pregnancy wouldn’t be an issue? Would she be able to have things sorted with Frank before the baby came? She didn’t think he would fight her for what was left of her inheritance from Uncle Lamb but she didn’t feel that she knew him enough anymore to be comfortable with that assumption.

“Yer… that is… Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Graham caught herself, “he spoke with the Reverend about… about the situation between the two of ye. The Reverend was already inclined to offer for the pair of ye to stay wi’ him while ye recovered from yer… ordeal…”

“Did Frank try to talk him out of it?” Claire asked cynically.

“Oh, no, my dear. No, he thought it was a good idea,” Mrs. Graham assured her sending a stab of guilt through Claire.

Seeing Frank again—and how much he resembled Black Jack Randall—had shaken her. It didn’t help that she wanted nothing more than to take Fergus and walk back to the stones, to rejoin whatever was left of the world they’d known. But she knew that Jamie had been right to send her through for the sake of their child and for whatever reason, Fergus had been sent through with her—perhaps as a more immediate reminder of what Jamie had tasked her with. Part of her was angry with Jamie and wanted to argue the point with him once more… just a little longer… Then she realized Mrs. Graham was still talking.

“He didna say that ye’d decided anything for certain but he did say ye both needed time to wrap yer heads around what things would mean. I dinna ken whether he’s hopeful about ye or resigned. The Reverend had been encouraging him to move on since it had been so long since ye’d… Well, whatever the pair of ye decide on yer own,” Mrs. Graham shifted her focus as she saw Claire’s smile was little more than polite listening to what Frank had to say on the status of their marriage, “he didna want the Reverend to take against ye on his account out of loyalty or some such nonsense.”

Wouldn’t want anyone thinking that he wasn’t concerned for his faithless wife’s wellbeing, Claire thought before chastising herself again.

“Didna want to appear unsympathetic to ye when there’s a child involved.” Mrs. Graham turned her attention to Fergus once more. He had switched from sending the car skittering across the floor into the furniture and was instead carefully examining the details of the toy—the axels of the underbelly, the hinge that opened the boot, the chips in the paint. “It’s the lad that the Reverend is most concerned with, ye understand. Whatever it is ye’ve been through, for a child to have endured it…”

Claire nodded. “He has been through much—most of it before he came into our… my care. It will be a period of adjustment for him.”

“Ye’ll be needing someone to help ye watch him if ye’re going to make a go of doing things on yer own,” Mrs. Graham agreed. “And the Reverend… he’s thinking it would help young Roger to have a playmate of sorts. He’s doing well enough but the Reverend kens his limits when it comes to the interests of children.”

Claire laughed. “I don’t know that two boys will get into any less trouble than one. From everything I’ve heard, quite the opposite is true.”

“Aye, in my experience as well. But it does wonders for them nonetheless. And ye’ll be having yer hands more than full soon enough.” Mrs. Graham’s eyes dropped to Claire’s belly where Claire realized she’d been pressing her palm to the child quietly growing in her womb. Would it be a boy? She felt the sad smile tug at her mouth as she remembered the portrait of Jamie as a toddler with his older brother and one of the dogs.

“I don’t think we would need to stay for more than a few weeks,” Claire said firmly. “As soon as things with the hospital are arranged and money matters are sorted, I’ll find a flat or a house for us.”

“But ye’ll still need someone to help wi’ the lad while ye’re away working—at least until he can start at school.”

“Yes, there’s that to arrange as well.”

“All the better for him if he kens someone on his first day,” Mrs. Graham argued eloquently. “Ye said his schooling was… interrupted?”

“He hasn’t had much in the way of formal schooling, no,” Claire confirmed. “I don’t think he’ll be able to start in the same year as the other children his age—he’ll need to catch up and acclimate to how it’s done.”

“If he and Roger get on, I’m sure the Reverend will put in a word at the school to have them keep the boys together. So—can I tell the Reverend ye’ll be staying with us?”

Claire watched Fergus. He was now standing at the window with the toy car resting on the sill as he watched the real thing drive by on the street below. He would have to go outside again sooner or later—there was still so much of the modern world for him to see. She didn’t want to overwhelm him—or herself given the three years she had missed since that morning at Craigh na Dun—but they couldn’t hide from the future forever.

“Yes. I’ll speak with the doctor about our release and then I can call you at the manse regarding the arrangements,” she said, committing to the next step forward.

Chapter Text

“I have never had a room of my own before,” Fergus remarked as he wandered around the small room on the second floor of the manse. It was across the hall from Roger’s and the younger boy had wandered in after the Reverend Wakefield had shown Claire and Fergus upstairs. Claire had followed Mrs. Graham back down to help her in the kitchen with dinner insisting it was the least she could do to help. The Reverend had a sermon to work on and entrusted Roger with seeing to their new guest and making sure he got settled.

“But… ye dinna have brothers and sisters,” Roger pointed out, slightly confused. “How could ye no have a room to yerself when there was no one for ye to share it with?”

“Before Mother Claire and Milord found me, I was living in a brothel in Paris,” Fergus explained.

“A brothel?” Roger inquired moving to a small table and chair in the corner that would serve as a desk for Fergus. He climbed onto the chair and placed a small airplane he’d been carrying with him on the desk to check its propeller.

Fergus silently cursed himself for mentioning Maison Elise––Mother Claire would not have wanted him to talk about the brothel and perhaps the Reverend would not want Roger to know about such places.

“Oui. It is a kind of… French boarding house… for women. The madam who ran it… she let me stay and help around the house when there was small work needing done.”

“Ah,” Roger said with a nod as though he understood completely. “And did they no send ye away during the war? My mam and gran did what they could to keep me in London when most of the children were being sent to the country. They died though and I came to live with my papa here. He’s no my real da, ye ken.”

“I do not know who my father is—or rather, who he was,” Fergus admitted, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing Roger. The bed was higher off the ground than any he’d ever been in before—his feet only skimmed the ground—but he had developed quite the inclination for twentieth century mattresses. “Nor my mother. But I have Mother Claire now.”

He thought of Milord and the longing that had become so familiar in the last week washed over him again. From what Mother Claire had said, Milord did not know that Fergus had come through the stones with her—must have assumed that he had carried through on his promise to join the men going back to Lallybroch, to carry that paper back to Mrs. Murray. If Milord learned the truth about his deception, would he be disappointed? Or would Milord be pleased that Fergus had accompanied Mother Claire and would be able to watch over her for him—her and the bébé, for by now he had figured out the truth about Mother Claire’s condition. If it hadn’t been for their time in l’hopital, he might have guessed sooner—he had seen a number of the ladies at Maison Elise with child during his time there; he knew the signs.

“Do ye want to go outside and play?” Roger asked.

“Play? Play how? With what?” Fergus asked, taken aback.

Roger laughed. “Anything we want. Mrs. Graham gave me a football for my last birthday.”

“A… foot… ball?” Fergus asked slowly.

Roger’s face became one of shock. “Ye’ve never played football?”

Fergus shook his head.

“Dinna worry. I’ll teach ye how,” Roger asserted, thrilled at the prospect of being able to teach the fascinating older boy something. “Come on.” He darted out of the room to retrieve the football and Fergus had little choice but to follow a few steps behind.

“Dinna run in the house, lads,” Mrs. Graham’s voice called out as they streaked through the kitchen and out the door into the yard.

Roger headed for the Reverend’s tool shed and turned the latch to let himself in. Fergus hovered by the door, peering in at all the boxes and equipment inside. He could guess at the purposes of most of the gardening tools—they were certainly more modern looking than anything he’d seen in the barns and tool sheds at Lallybroch, but a shovel is a shovel. The boxes and the contents protruding from the open tops of some of them caught the former pickpocket’s eye; the glint of light off a bottle, the sagging of one side of a box suggesting something heavy within.

“What does your father keep in those?” Fergus asked as Roger located the football and tucked it under his arm.

Roger looked. “All sorts of things. Some of them are my mam and da’s things from before the war. He doesna want to throw them away cause he says they belong to me.”

“Can we look inside them then?” Fergus took a small step forward. “You did say they are yours,” he pointed out as Roger bit his lip nervously.

Finally, the younger boy shook his head. “I want to play football.” He led the way back to the yard where he dropped the ball to the ground and began kicking it while running around.

Fergus glanced back at the boxes one last time before closing the door to the shed and running after Roger trying to claim control of the ball.

“Ye canna do that!” Roger exclaimed when Fergus managed to get hold of the ball. “Ye must use yer feet and no touch it wi’ yer hands. Why d’ye think they call it football?”

Fergus shrugged and dropped it to the ground again, kicking it past Roger.

“Ye’re supposed to kick it at the goal,” Roger said with exasperation as he retrieved the ball from a bush and began to direct it towards a gap between two shrubs using short kicks that made it difficult for Fergus to get the ball away from him.

“Do not touch the ball with my hands and aim for the goal,” Fergus repeated. “What is my ‘goal’ then? Is it the same as yours?”

“Aye… for now. When ye’ve got the knack we’ll play one against one and yer goal will be there instead,” Roger explained as he pointed at the far side of the yard—Fergus couldn’t discern where the gap Roger indicated lay or how it was marked. He was too concerned with getting control of the ball back.

He stuck his foot towards Roger’s and caught the younger boy hard in the shin, swinging his leg in such a way that he pulled Roger’s foot out from under him. Roger went sprawling across the grass, his arms spread in front of him and his face landing in the dirt.

Fergus couldn’t help laughing at the image as Roger pushed himself back up onto his hands and knees, dirt streaked across his face along with blood from his lip. Embarrassed and slightly mortified by the thought of what his father and Mrs. Graham would make of his dirtied state, Roger lashed out and, catching Fergus by surprise, knocked him to the ground. Fergus quieted for a startled moment but as soon as he caught his breath again, he began to laugh harder. Roger began to laugh too and soon both boys were lying on their backs, rolling back and forth with uncontrolled laughter.

“What are they doing?” Claire remarked with an amused shake of the head as she peered out the kitchen window into the yard.

“It’s like watching twa pups sniffin’ each other out,” Mrs. Graham commented with a chuckle.

They had finished laying out the materials necessary for assembling shepherd’s pie but Mrs. Graham was rummaging through the cabinet to find her preferred casserole dish. Claire stood at the stove with the skillet warming to cook the minced lamb and onions but as she put the onions in the skillet, the powerful scent of them browning triggered a wave of nausea.

Claire began breathing through her open mouth and taking shallow breaths but it wasn’t helping the way she’d hoped it would—instead of just smelling the cooking onions, she felt like she could taste them too and it ultimately sent Claire running to the kitchen sink to vomit… just as it had in Paris when she was pregnant with Faith. Leaning her forearms on the edge of the sink, Claire wiped her mouth with a nearby dishrag, not caring whether it was dirty or clean.

“Are ye all right here, lass?” Mrs. Graham asked, rubbing a hand over Claire’s back.

“I will be but… I might need to step outside for a bit and get some air,” she explained. “I should have known better with the onions.” She quickly cleaned up the rest of the mess and used a glass of water from the tap to rinse out her mouth.

“Ah,” Mrs. Graham said with a nod of understanding. “Well, dinna tempt fate for the sake of being too polite. If the bairn canna abide the smell then out ye go. Mind ye, I appreciate the help but I’d rather no bear witness to that agin while working wi’ food and thinkin’ on the meal itself—though I ken well enough my figure could use a wee bit of curbing the appetite.”

She ushered Claire out into the yard and turned back to the stove to remove the onions from the heat before they could burn.

A few deep breaths of the clean air and Claire’s nausea had passed. She moved to a wicker chair and eased herself down, leaning back so she could watch Fergus and Roger playing. They’d gotten back up and had resumed kicking the ball around, laughing and hollering as they did so.

She adjusted the waist of her skirt so it didn’t cut so sharply across her abdomen. She couldn’t be more than two or three months along but already her clothes were an uncomfortable fit. Or maybe it was just because she’d become so used to wearing stays and layers of skirts and petticoats. She rested her hand on her abdomen but there wasn’t much of a detectable swell. But she was becoming more aware of the presence of the child growing within—the piece of Jamie that was left to her.

Fergus cried out, “Mother Claire! Watch, watch!”

Claire sat up straighter in the chair to signal her attention.

Fergus squared off with the ball at his feet and used his toe to get under the ball and with a quick motion send it up into the air. With the same leg he reached out to make a stab at the ball with his foot but the ball had traveled further from him than he realized and he missed, upsetting his balance and tumbling over. It was Roger’s turn to laugh at his playmate.

Claire pressed her lips together in a smile but refrained from laughing at Fergus, who had gotten to his feet and retrieved the ball to try again.

She had never seen him play like this before. He’d gotten into mischief enough at Lallybroch after their return from France and before Charles’ letter came, but it had never been so carefree. He had still been getting a feel for his place then; there was Rabbie McNab who was about his own age and already a stable hand, too busy with work to spend much time playing and young Jamie had been so much younger than Fergus that to play with the younger boy was less fun for Fergus and more of a chore.

Fergus had grown up so much during the Jacobite campaigns. He’d seen things he never should have seen, done things no boy his age should ever be required to do.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late for him to have a childhood, though. Perhaps here and now what little innocence he had left might be preserved.

The ball came flying in Claire’s general direction with the boys following closely after it. Claire spotted the blood smeared with the dirt on Roger’s face.

“Come here Roger. Let me take a look at that, will you?” she encouraged him, moving from her seat to crouch beside him and pull out her handkerchief. She wiped at the mess a little but it had mostly dried on and she had no water at hand. A perfunctory examination suggested that he’d bitten his lip but the bleeding appeared to have stopped. It was a little swollen and could do with some ice, however.

“Let’s head inside so I can clean this properly,” she suggested with that maternal tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Fergus and Roger exchanged exasperated looks before trudging back to the house. Claire followed so that they might not see her amusement.

Yes, it was good for Fergus to be here and looked like it would prove beneficial to Roger too.

“What have ye done to yer clothes?” Claire heard Reverend Wakefield exclaim as the boys wiped their feet on the mat by the door. “If ye were goin’ to play outside, why did ye no change to something more suitable first?” the scolding continued.

“I’ll clean him up,” Claire explained to Reverend Wakefield. “He was just educating Fergus as to the finer points of football.”

“Och, weel,” Reverend Wakefield nodded, mollified. “Makin’ sure Fergus here kens what he’ll need for school in the fall, eh? Right enough. Mind Mrs. Ran… Mistress Beauchamp then. I’ll be in my study wrestling with Sunday’s sermon.”

After Reverend Wakefield had left and Claire shepherded the boys towards the washroom, Fergus whispered to Roger, “Why would it matter what you are wearing for clothes outside?”

Chapter Text

“Care to take a look?” Dr. Chisholm asked as he peered into the patient’s open abdominal cavity on the operating table. Though much of his face was concealed by his gown and mask, Claire could still see the telltale raise of his eyebrows and the smiling crinkle at the outer edges.

“Thank you, doctor,” she said with an enthusiastic smile of her own. “I’d like that very much.”

Another of the surgical nurses took over preparing the silk sutures Dr. Chisholm would need for closing while Claire stepped up alongside him and peeked at the condition of the patient’s internal organs for herself, running through the common and technical names for each of them in her head. Dr. Chisholm spoke quickly as he explained to her what he was looking at—the inflamed appendix—and the various threats it posed to the patient left untreated, unsuccessfully treated, in the event of a post-op infection. Claire listened intently, nodding even as she longed to stretch and twist to relieve the growing ache in her lower back and through her shoulders—she appreciated Dr. Chisholm’s efforts to teach her what he could informally.

Before Dr. Yates—the anesthesiologist—could clear his throat, Dr. Chisholm concluded his little lesson, thanking Claire for her attention and indulgence.

“It always helps me to run through common procedure like this from time to time,” he said by way of explanation. “Keep the mind sharp and the digits obedient.” He wiggled his glove covered fingers in such a way that they cracked. “Pickups,” he requested, extending his hand to Claire who had returned to her place at the instrument tray. She passed him the tools as he called for them and the operating room settled down once more into the busy rhythm of a relatively common appendectomy.

Claire’s integration into the nursing staff at the hospital in Inverness had been bumpy at first. The story of her mysterious disappearance, sudden reappearance with Fergus in tow, and divorce from Frank had surrounded her in a cloud of notoriety that plenty were eager to observe but reluctant to approach too closely for fear of being somehow contaminated by it. Greer Donalson had been a good friend to her and helped her make a few friends but as soon as Claire’s pregnancy began to show itself her skills became less important than the impression she might give off to the hospital’s patients. It was Nurse Donalson again who devised a solution—promote Claire to the surgical nursing staff where patients were unconscious and could make few objections to a nurse who was both unwed and pregnant; several of the surgeons on staff had objections of their own, but Dr. Chisholm saw more than just Claire’s skill—he saw her aptitude and potential.

When he first suggested she should apply to medical school she laughed in his face.

“Ye dinna think ye could do it?” he asked, surprised that the confident and competent nurse appeared as backward in her thinking as most people he knew.

“The work it takes to become a doctor? I believe I could do that… if it were the only concern,” she emphasized, her hand cupping the slight curve of her belly in illustration. “But there’s the financial cost of the courses as well as the fact that it takes time away from being able to work—which means I have no income to help with my living expenses. Then there’s my son to consider—he’s old enough to be left to his own devices for the most part but adjusting to life here is… He needs me to be there for him when I am home. Not to mention the fact that I’ll have a newborn to worry about in a few months time.”

“Well,” Dr. Chisholm said, his face red with embarrassment for having overlooked Claire’s obvious and crucial concerns, “whether ye can work it now or not, I think ye oughtn’t to dismiss the idea altogether. Yer circumstances at present… well, they werena always just so, surely.”

Claire shrugged and nodded—her circumstances, it seemed, were never as reliable as she would like.

“So then, who’s to say they may no change again? Ye may find yerself with just such an opportunity so ye ought to do what ye can, where ye can to prepare for it, no?”

“And what do you have in mind?” she’d asked, a flicker of excitement she hadn’t felt in too long catching on a bit of kindling.

So Dr. Chisholm had requested she be his primary surgical nurse; she participated in almost all of his surgeries and he was able to review material with her and question her on it in a myriad of informal ways. He even gave her his old textbooks for her to study when she found time for herself. “They’re a bit outdated at this point,” he told her, glancing at the publication details on the first page. “I’ve ordered a new set for myself for reference and would otherwise throw them in the bin but they’re no so outdated as to be obsolete.”

“Thank you,” Claire said, running her fingers over the well-worn spines.

She studied them at night—only for an hour after Fergus went to bed. She told herself it would help make her a more effective nurse but didn’t need any further motivation or excuse than the simple desire for knowledge. She knew she would have to be daft to think that she might ever have an opportunity to apply and attend medical school so unless Dr. Chisholm was mad enough to risk letting her attempt any part of a procedure herself, her knowledge would remain theoretical rather than practical, but the learning of it left her satisfied in a way that little else did.

Dr. Chisholm completed the appendectomy on schedule and the patient was wheeled to recovery while Claire and her colleagues cleaned up and made their necessary notes on the procedure. A quick glance at the clock showed Claire that her shift was over and it was time she caught the bus that would take her to the manse to retrieve Fergus.

Mrs. Graham had helped her find and secure a flat that was a convenient distance from both the hospital and the school that Fergus would attend in just a few weeks’ time. Until then, Mrs. Graham had volunteered to watch him while Claire was at work.

“It’s a blessing to have him here and keeping Roger entertained,” Mrs. Graham had insisted when Claire expressed hesitation. “Allows me more time for my chores about the house and gives the Reverend an opportunity to compose his sermons uninterrupted—though he’s apt to go looking for the distraction from time to time.”

Claire was pleased to see how well Fergus and Roger got on; it would help for Fergus to have a friend once he started school. Her attempts to educate Fergus at home so that he wouldn’t be so far behind the modern curriculum proved to be only moderately successful. He would be the odd man out already because of his accent and age; she didn’t want him to suffer too much for his previous lack of education.

There was an unfamiliar vehicle in the drive when she arrived at the manse. She puzzled over who the Reverend’s visitor might be as she waited for Mrs. Graham to answer the door.

“Please tell me ye havena walked all the way from the bus,” Mrs. Graham scolded Claire as she held the door open and ushered her through to the kitchen. “Ye’ll be wearing yerself out more’n ye ought in yer condition.”

“I spent several hours sitting in on an appendectomy this afternoon and I do mean sitting,” she informed Mrs. Graham. “Dr. Chisholm insists I have a stool by the instrument cart so that I don’t overexert myself—a bit of movement like a good walk was precisely what I needed after that.” Claire took the seat Mrs. Graham pulled out for her at the table. While her pregnant belly was noticeable it hadn’t yet reached a size as to be obtrusive—only mildly inconvenient. She rested a hand at the top of the swell where the child inside had started kicking her again, eager to be on the move once more, apparently.

“Aye, well,” Mrs. Graham grumbled as she moved about the kitchen to fix herself and Claire a cup of tea. “I suppose where ye’re working at the hospital ye’re in as good a place as any should anything—God forbid—happen that’s of concern for the bairn.”

After setting the tea things out on the table for Claire to serve herself, Mrs. Graham began arranging a second service on a tray to take in to the Reverend and his guest.

“Roger and Fergus are out in the garden just now. If ye’d like to call them while I take this in for the men, you and I can have a bit of a chat while the lads take their time coming in and washing up,” Mrs. Graham suggested.

Claire nodded and began the process of rising from her seat once more. She could hear Mrs. Graham through the hallways as she pushed her way into the Reverend’s library to deliver the tea tray; she heard the welcome exclamations from the Reverend and Frank as well.

The kicking that had been subsiding resumed with vigor as the adrenaline flooding her system reached her womb and its occupant.

Instead of turning towards the door to call Fergus and Roger inside, she found herself glancing around the kitchen, spotting a half-finished jar of preserves and grabbing it before starting down the hall to the library. An encounter with Frank now that their divorce was finalized would inevitably be awkward but it was better to get it over with than to risk Frank and Fergus meeting. She was fairly certain Frank would bumble his way through such a meeting politely enough but she feared what seeing Frank—whose resemblance to that distant relation of his, Black Jack Randall, remained striking in its strength—would do to Fergus.

She tapped at the door before peeking inside and entering, leading with the jar of preserves.

“I think you forgot these—oh,” she interrupted herself as Frank’s eye fell on her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

The Reverend and Mrs. Graham exchanged glances before Frank invited her into the library.

“Thank you, Claire,” he said, his eyes drifting down to take in her expanded form. He blinked slowly as he struggled to overcome his surprise at seeing her. “You look…”

“I know,” Claire said, rubbing a hand perfunctorily over her belly and adjusting her posture to minimize the prominence of her pregnancy. “Soon it’ll be the three of us.”

Frank’s brow furrowed and Claire turned red.

“I’m afraid I am too tired to stay for a cup of tea after all,” she apologized to Mrs. Graham. “Shall I send Roger inside while I fetch Fergus or will he be allowed to remain outdoors?”

It was Frank’s turn to go red.

“Aye, if he wishes,” Mrs. Graham nodded. “I’ll be through to the kitchen in a minute and can call ye a cab so ye’ll no have to walk—or if ye think ye can handle a few minutes I can get Roger settled and drive ye home myself.”

“Oh, ye’re no meaning to walk at all, Mrs. Beauchamp,” the Reverend slipped, his eyes darting to Frank and back to Claire—she had begun using her maiden name as soon as she left the hospital.

“Nonsense,” Claire insisted with a dismissive wave of the hand. She was already half out the door again, eager to escape. “The walk will tire Fergus and that is worth every step. Thank you again for watching him, Mrs. Graham. You’ll have to send Roger to stay over some night soon to give yourselves a break—before the term starts.” She finished slipping away before anything else could be said and hurried along to the garden out back.

Fergus could immediately tell that something was amiss from the way that Claire came all the way out into the yard to fetch him.

“Is everything all right, Mother Claire?” he asked as Claire led him around the outside of the house rather than through it. “Le bébé is not causing you discomfort?”

“The baby is fine,” Claire insisted—though the sudden movements and continued strain of her nerves had the small body protesting and making its presence felt.

“Is it Mr. Frank?” Fergus asked.

Claire stopped and looked at him concerned. “Did you see him at all? Did he say anything to you?”

“Non. Roger told me the man was expected by the Reverend,” Fergus informed her and some of the tightness in Claire’s chest eased. “You are not wanting to see him again if it can be avoided?”

“That’s one reason for leaving just now,” Claire agreed, resuming her pace as they rounded the corner of the house and began crossing the front yard. Claire felt they were being watched from the windows of the library, which overlooked the drive; she willed herself not to turn around and look.

“Roger also said the man’s name was Randall,” Fergus added. “This man… he is un descendant of…”

Claire stopped again and turned full on Fergus. “Not directly.”

“But he is the man you were married to before Milord.”

“Yes.” Claire peered into Fergus’ face. Some of the youthful roundness of his cheeks was beginning to fade and the improvement in his nutrition and overall standard of living appeared to have spurred a growth spurt. He had already changed so much since their arrival in the twentieth century and yet it was always easier to keep track of the physical alterations. If his understanding of the intervening history and overall education were still shaky, there were aspects underlying his travel through time—and more specifically, Claire’s experiences—that were constantly surprising her.

“It isn’t simply that he is my former husband,” Claire struggled to explain. “He is a good man—very different from Captain Randall.”

“But you do not want him to meet me?”

“It’s for your sake,” she insisted, afraid Fergus might feel herself ashamed of him in some way. “He is a very different man when it comes to his character… but physically he does resemble…”

Fergus paled and she succumbed to the instinctive need to comfort him. His arms grew surer around her back until he took a step back to lay a hand on her belly—the baby had given him a particularly forceful kick.

“Dors petit enfant,” Fergus intoned, bringing a smile to Claire’s lips.

She glanced back at the manse, the feeling of Frank’s eyes on the pair of them too great to be ignored. He stood at the window but the glass panes were too old and dirty for her to make out his expression from such a distance.

“We ought to get going,” she told him. “I want to go through a bit more of your maths after dinner.”

Fergus slipped his hand into hers and they continued on their way home.

Chapter Text

Fergus pulled the blankets up around his ears.

“I am not well, Mother Claire,” he pled, drawing his knees up towards his stomach. “I will be sick if I go out of bed.”

Claire lowered herself onto the mattress beside him, grimacing as the springs creaked under her weight. She put a hand to his forehead and frowned.

“Sit up,” she told him. Encouraged, he did so and lifted his head high while she felt along his throat. “Mmmhmm,” she murmured. She took his wrist and felt for his pulst. “Interesting…”

Fergus’ eyes went wide.

“You most certainly have come down with a serious case––very serious,” she told him taking his hands in hers.

“A serious case?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“A very serious case of nerves,” she nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, the only cure is to face the day and see it through. To the best of my knowledge, everyone feels nervous on their first day of school.” She rose and pulled the blankets back to the foot of the bed, exposing Fergus’ pale legs.

He sighed and climbed out of bed.

“What do you mean, ‘to the best of your knowledge’?” he asked as he began to dress.

Clare set about straightening the bed as best she could maneuvering around her over-large belly––she was due sometime in the next two months.

“I didn’t have much in the way of formal schooling myself,” she told Fergus. Adjusting the pillows she added, “My uncle tried dropping me off at a boarding school when I was five or six but that didn’t last very long. So he took me with him on his expeditions for work and I learned what I could on my own and with him tutoring me.”

“If you did not go to school,” Fergus objected, pulling a sweater on over his head, “why must I? You will be home with le bébé soon. Can you not teach me then?”

Claire smiled at him as she rubbed her belly. “I’ll be a bit busy with the baby,” she pointed out. “Besides, I can’t teach you everything you’ll need to learn.:

“Milord did not attend such schools.”

“Milord went to université . Are you worried about the other students?” She leaned against the table Fergus would use as a desk as she watched him tie his shoes. Her crossed arms rested atop the swell of her belly.

Fergus’ neck went pink.

“You’ll have Roger in your class,” she reminded him. “He’ll introduce you to everyone.”

“I am older than him and the others. And he already knows more than I do. They will laugh and they will think me…” He couldn’t find the word he wanted and instead of reverting to the French, as he was wont to do, he groaned loudly and flopped onto the bed. He started as the springs caused the mattress to bounce rather than give way––another reminder he would never feel entirely comfortable in this strange future time.

Claire sighed and sat beside him once more. She reached over and brushed one of his dark curls from his forehead.

“You’ve been doing really well here in this time,” she remarked.

“I had more…” he faltered again. “I was valuable to milord without schooling. To go back now it… it is… lowering.”

“Milord would not have seen it as such and neither will anyone here,” she insisted. “You will find ways to make friends and you will find a place for yourself––I promise––but you have to go to school and try first. You deserve to get to be a real child for a change––to not bear the weight of the responsibilities you had before. Growing up is not…”

She trailed off as Fergus sighed again. She didn’t need to remind him of the horrors the world held; he’d seen many of them first-hand before she’d even met him. What he needed was a mother.

She slipped a hand behind his back and did her best to raise him up.

“You’re going to be late and I want you to have a decent breakfast before I walk you to school,” she told him. “Any and all further griping must wait until the end of the day when you have something new to gripe about.”

Fergus allowed himself to be led from his room.

 The teacher assigned Fergus a seat with Roger near the front of the class. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he took his seat and slumped down. He was taller than everyone by several inches, which immediately signalled to his classmates that he was older than them. They were undecided as to whether this rendered him deserving of their ridicule or their adulation. That he was already friends with the Reverend Wakefield’s nephew did nothing to help them decide.

The teacher required Fergus to stand in front of everyone in order to introduce himself. His accent sent a fresh wave of whispers through the group.

“Where’re ye from then?” One of the other boys called out before the teacher could ask Fergus to return to his seat.

“Paris, originally,” he responded quietly.

“A Frenchie? How come ye came to Scotland? Why aren’t ye at a French orphanage?”

“That’s enough Rabbie,” the teacher interjected. “You’ll be able to get to know Fergus better at the break but for now ye need to put yer eyes forward and copy the assignment from the board. We’ll be reviewing some simple maths today to be sure what ye learnt last term is still kickin’ around in yer heids somewhere.”

Fergus breathed deeper as he picked up his pencil and began painstakingly copying the figures down––he had until break to get his bearings before the onslaught would begin.

“If ye’re French why’re ye called Fergus?”

“It is the adoptive name that mil––that my… that was given to me.”

“Where do ye live?”

“Here in Inverness with Mother Claire.”

“He meant what street.”

“Oh. I do not know. We have only lived there for some weeks.”

But ye’ve been in Inverness since spring. I remember my mam talking of how the story was in the paper. Yer mam’s the one the fairies took a few years back. Have ye met the fairies yerself?”

“The dinna have fairies in France, ye dolt; they have frogs .”

“They can have both, ye daft––”

“Rabbie!”

“Ye daft… dolt.”

“But they dinna have selkies. My da says selkies are only in Scotland––selkies and waterhorses.”

“Have ye ever ate a frog?”

“No… but I did slip one into a man’s pocket once. He did not notice for two streets and then when he went to get into his carria––his car ––it jumped out and onto a woman walking by. You would have laughed to see the way she screamed and danced to get him off.”

“Ye couldna get away wi’ a thing like that.”

“ Oui . I certainly did. My fingers move so fast and with gentleness. No one knows when I have passed.”

“Even if you could, a frog wouldna stay still so long.”

“Maybe it’s cause he’s French. Maybe they’ve got a special way wi’ frogs.”

The students filed back into the classroom after their midday break. The boys in particular were unexpectedly quiet though they exchanged looks that might have given the instructor pause were it not the first day back.

Taking a deep breath the teacher waited for the children to be seated before asking them to get out their books so they could take turns reading aloud in front of the class. It was his habit to walk up and down the aisles of students as they read to be sure that each of them was following along and that none were misbehaving.

The new student in the class––Fergus… Beesom? No, it was Beauchamp––spoke slowly and stumbled over the words.

The teacher crossed to stand beside Fergus and help him to sound out the words. From what he’d heard from the headmaster, the boy’s time in France during and after the war had limited his schooling. Having served himself in France before being transferred to the German front later in the war, there were plenty of French children whose names, faces, and fates were burned into his memory. He hoped having Fergus in his class would help him lay some personal ghosts to rest.

“Ye ken the letters sound a bit different when ye say them in English,” he told the boy who looked up at him with large round eyes. “Now try again from the start of the sentence. ‘ The quick brown …”

Fergus nodded and looked back down at the book pressing the pages down with his forearm to keep it open, the line of his arm serving to underscore the line of text where his focus lay.

“Verra good, Mr. Beauchamp. Now why don’t ye translate that to the French for yer classmates.”

Fergus glanced around to the other students in the class but they appeared just as confused as he was.

“Since ye’re in a position to be learning English, it only seems fair that the rest of us might learn a bit of French,” the teacher explained as he walked back to the front of the to lean against his desk. “Perhaps they’ll appreciate better how challenging it is to learn a second language.”

“But my grandda taught me Gáidhlig,” Rabbie objected. “I already ken two languages.”

“Then it’ll do ye no harm to learn a third.”

A girl in the front row raised her hand but began asking her question before he could call on her.

“Aren’t we going to learn French in a few years’ time, sir?”

“Traditionally ye do begin lessons in foreign tongues a bit later but ye may be happy later to have had an earlier start. Dinna fash that ye’ll be tested on it. I just want ye to have it about ye and for ye to see that ye can learn from one another too; no just from me.”

He noticed the eyes of the class were focused on the same point but it wasn’t quite him; they appeared to be looking to his left and he felt a tug at the side of his suit jacket like that of a small child trying to get his attention. He frowned before looking down to the empty space beside him.

There was no one there; all the students remained in their seats.

He felt a second tug but it wasn’t from someone pulling on his jacket from the outside; it was coming from inside his pocket. He wasn’t in the habit of putting anything but his hands into his pockets. It was surprising he hadn’t noticed the extra weight immediately and when he reached in and his fingers encountered the damp and gritty sliminess of a muddy frog, his surprise grew.

The creature struggled to both free itself from the confines of his pocket and escape from his grasp as he sought to pull it out. It would take forever to get the mud out of the lining of his pocket.

Wetness soaked into the fabric and he groaned. The frog finally stopped fighting long enough for him to pull it free. It finished relieving itself on the floor at the front of the classroom causing two girls in the front row to scream while most of the rest of the class laughed.

The teacher set his teeth and carried the frog out of the room and out of the building. He had removed his suit jacket by the time he came back inside. Though a small wet patch had soaked through to his shirt beneath, it wasn’t as noticeable.

He found the Reverend Wakefield’s adopted son helping the boy Fergus to clean up the mess at the front of the room. Rabbie came running over with another damp towel from the washroom. One of the girls was copying dictation from Fergus onto the blank blackboard behind the teacher’s desk and the rest of the class was trying to sound out the words of the sentence written in French.

“There you are, monsieur,” Fergus said when the class had quieted and the mess sufficiently cleared. “Perhaps la grenouille was interested in the lesson.” He smiled innocently and returned to his seat next to Roger.

The entire class waited quietly for the teacher’s reaction.

“How was your first day?” Claire asked while she and Fergus waved to Mrs. Graham as she pulled away from the curb. “Was it as terrible as you expected it to be?”

Fergus shook his head and began babbling about frogs and the other boys in his class. He slipped in and out of French, the English taking too long for him to wrap his tongue around to satisfy the speed of his mind.

“Slow down,” Claire implored with a laugh as she began gathering food from the cabinet and refrigerator to prepare their dinner. “Are you saying you slipped a frog into your teacher’s pocket?”

Fergus flushed, briefly ashamed, but then he shrugged. “You told me I would find a way to make friends with the other boys. That was the way I saw.”

“Well, it sounds like it proved effective,” Claire admitted. “So long as you promise me you won’t do it again…”

“I promise, Mother Claire,” Fergus assured her solemnly with a hand over his heart.

It wouldn’t take long to teach the other boys a few of the tricks and techniques necessary for one of them to take over next time.

Chapter Text

Fergus and Roger emerged from the confines of the school into a cool and overcast afternoon in late November ready to hurry back to the manse and play.

It had been two weeks since the hospital had informed Claire that she could no longer come in to perform even the remedial tasks of filing paperwork; she would be welcomed back gladly in three to six months time if she could find the means to do so after having had her baby. Claire––in order to keep herself from going mad on her own all day––had taken to visiting with Mrs. Graham at the manse while the housekeeper performed her daily duties; she had even sat in with Reverend Wakefield to serve as an audience while he worked through some difficult passages in his weekly sermons. The highlight of her day was when Mrs. Graham drove them to the school to pick up the boys and she listened to the two of them chattering away in the back seat on the drive back.

“D’ye mind if we do somethin’ other than football today?” Roger asked with a slight whine in his voice. “Mrs. Graham willna forgive me if I muddy another pair of trousers. She says she isna a machine and canna keep up wi’ the laundry I make for her.”

“What can we do that will not make laundry for her, though?” Fergus pointed out. “At least we know she is familiar with the stains from football. Would it not make more work for her if we play at something else and create new stains she must toil with?”

Roger didn’t think so but the air of pious certainty with which Fergus spoke made him smile. It was a moment later he realized that Fergus had abruptly stopped walking and fallen behind. There was something between panic and excitement on his friend’s face when Roger turned to call at Fergus to hurry and catch up.

Mrs. Graham stood beside the car but there was no Claire in the front seat next to her.

“The bairn?” Roger asked, turning to Fergus who rushed forward just as suddenly as he’d stopped moments before.

“Mother Claire––she is having le bébé, non ? You must take me to see her at once,” he demanded of Mrs. Graham breathlessly.

“Aye,” Mrs. Graham confirmed with a smile. “Her pains started about midday so I drove her to hospital and she said ye’re to stay wi’ Roger and Reverend Wakefield at the manse until she calls to say the bairn’s here.”

Fergus was already shaking his head. “ Non , I must go to be with her now. She must not be alone through this––it is not what Milord would want for her.”

Mrs. Graham frowned at him. “I’m under firm orders that ye’re to wait for word from the hospital,” she assured him. “Besides,” her hand went to her hips, “there’s naught for ye to do if ye were there aside from sit and wait and get yerself underfoot. It’ll be a long while yet,” she insisted, moving to herd the boys to the car. “Best have a bit of a play, put some food in yer belly, and see if ye can sleep a bit. Lord knows ye’ll no have much o’ that once the bairn comes home wi’ ye.”

Fergus could tell that he wasn’t going to make any progress with Mrs. Graham by arguing and she was right––it would be a while before the baby arrived; there was time.

But even Roger noticed that Fergus was more than just distracted in the car.

“Do ye feel all right?” he whispered. “Ye look like ye might be sick. Didna think ye had trouble in cars.”

Fergus sighed as he continued staring out the window. “I will be fine.”

In truth, his stomach was twisting in on itself. A guilt he had struggled with––and thought for two years he had conquered––was rolling through his gut. If it had not been for him––for what he’d fallen into with that horrible English officer––neither he nor Mother Claire would be in Inverness. Milord would never have challenged the officer to that duel and Mother Claire would not have lost the child she carried; Milord would not have been banished from France and they all might well have stayed there for some years. They would not have gotten involved with that disastrous war and Milord would be with Mother Claire now to see a second living child born. It didn’t matter what Mother Claire or Milord said about the officer being to blame for what happened to him or that Mother Claire would almost certainly have lost the child regardless of Milord fighting that duel, Fergus could never entirely banish the guilt he carried; he could only compress it small enough that the weight of it was bearable… until moments like this.

She had been alone at L’Hopital des Anges before, but Fergus would make sure she was not alone through her ordeal this time; he owed it to Milord.

Mrs. Graham exchanged more than a few raised eyebrows with Reverend Wakefield after arriving back at home with the boys. Even Roger’s invitation to play football wasn’t enough to draw Fergus outdoors. Instead he sat at the kitchen table and hurried through his assignments, finishing in time for supper and then announcing he was going to go to bed despite the relatively early hour.

“It is the same with all things that we wait for,” he explained when Mrs. Graham expressed her doubts. “Time passes more quickly when you are in sleep.”

“If ye dinna think yer excitement will keep ye awake…” Reverend Wakefield said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Fergus brushed the concern off with a smile. “I can sleep anywhere, je vous promets .”

Mrs. Graham encouraged Roger to let Fergus be for a while. “It’s an odd place he’s in just now wi’ the new bairn coming. Ye need to give him the room to come to terms with what it means for him wi’ Mrs. Beauchamp.”

Though Roger appeared resigned if not convinced by––or completely comprehending––what Mrs. Graham said, he was soon thoroughly distracted by his adoptive father’s invitation to play at checkers, eventually beating him three games out of four.

“We’ll make it best out of seven,” Reverend Wakefield declared as Roger left the room to use the bathroom.

He opted for the bathroom upstairs, figuring it would be easy enough to see if Fergus was still awake and might change his mind about joining them for a game or two. Roger entered the room as Fergus had one leg on either side of the window sill.

“What are ye doing?” Roger managed to exclaim without raising his voice.

“I am going to the hospital to see Mother Claire,” Fergus stated matter-of-factly. “You will not tell Madame Graham that I am gone?” It was a question that carried the weight of Fergus’ confidence in his friend.

“Aye. But she’ll be looking to see ye’re asleep later. I canna keep her out forever.”

“It is taken care of,” Fergus gestured to the spot on the floor where a cot had been pulled out and drawn to the foot of Roger’s bed. Fergus had arranged blankets and a few of Roger’s toys so that it looked as though Fergus lay sleeping with the blankets pulled up around his head.

Roger frowned, unconvinced it would work but Fergus had already swung his other foot out the window prepared to make the drop to the porte-cochére at the front of the manse.

“Wait,” Roger encouraged him. “I’ll distract them while ye go so they dinna hear ye. Count to ten before ye go for it.”

Fergus nodded as Roger rushed out of the room.

“Ye sound like an elephant,” Mrs. Graham admonished Roger as he ran down the stairs as heavy-footed as he could manage. “Ye’ll wake Fergus if ye’re no careful.”

“Sorry,” Roger said looking suitably sheepish and guilty before settling in for the next few rounds of checkers with Reverend Wakefield.

When it was time for him to go to bed, Roger made sure to close the window before Mrs. Graham made her final cursory visit to the room.

Once on the porte-cochére, Fergus was still nearly ten feet from the ground but the columns supporting the structure were manageable enough. He held onto the edge near the corner till his legs found a solid grip around the column, then he shifted his weight and took a more sure grip of the column with his arms only loosening his hold enough to allow himself a slow descent to the gravel below. On solid ground again, Fergus waited only a moment for the rubbery feeling in his arms and legs to fade before making a dash for the end of the drive where he would be safely out of the light cast by the windows of the manse.

For a former pickpocket who had roamed the streets of Paris plying his trade, the streets of Inverness were easily mastered. Whenever Fergus had been in a car with either Claire or Mrs. Graham, he’d stare out the window at the streets, the shops, the people marvelling at what two hundred years could bring about but also creating his own internal map of the city––a fairly easy task when so many of the streets were so clearly marked––and the hospital had been one of the more frequent destinations of his journeys in the last several months as Mrs. Graham and Reverend Wakefield frequently brought him to Claire at the end of her shift rather than force her to pick him up at the manse.

Finding his way in the dark of night proved easier than he’d anticipated thanks to the streetlights. The same streetlights also made keeping to the shadows both more necessary and more difficult. It wouldn’t do for someone to see him alone and try to bring him to the authorities. He kept his attention focused on the sidewalk or road ahead as often as possible while he walked and was sure to stride with purpose to give the impression he belonged on those streets at that hour. Aside from a close call as he went past a pub where a large crowd of boisterous young men emerged in a semi-drunken state, Fergus reached the hospital without incident.

It still remained to him, however, to locate Claire within the hospital. He marched to the front desk and smiled at the nurse on duty.

“ Excusez-moi ,” he said to get her attention. “Would you be able to guide me to the expecting mothers?”

“Ye need help finding yer mam?” the nurse blinked at him.

“ Oui . She is here to birth a child and I must be with her.”

The nurse frowned at him but pulled out a binder and turned the page. “Name?”

“ Beauchamp … My name is Fergus Beauchamp.” It was still odd hearing himself say it like that; he had never had a last name before.

“I meant yer mam’s name.”

“Oh… Claire. She is a nurse here.”

Recognition dawned on the nurse’s face. “Nurse Bee cham,” she said emphasizing it differently from how Fergus naturally pronounced it. “Aye, she’s here a’right. But uh… ye canna go in to see her now ; she’s in delivery and ye’re no allowed back there.”

“But I must see her; she cannot be alone this time,” he objected, his smile and confidence fading; he was so close. Perhaps if he could just sneak behind the desk and peek in the nurse’s binder, it would tell him which room she was in. He had already gotten out of the manse and safely away; it couldn’t prove much more difficult to find his way through the hospital once he knew which room he needed to find.

“Nurse Donalson?”

Fergus’ head jerked up and he saw that the nurse behind the desk had the receiver of a telephone raised to her ear; now would be the perfect time to slip away but he needed the information on that page first and she was leaning on it with her elbow.

“Can ye come to the admissions desk? Aye, I ken what ye’re busy with, but that’s why I need ye. There’s someone here to see… How long do ye expect… Right. I’ll take care of it then.” She hung up and turned back to Fergus pressing her lips together in thought.

“Are ye hungry, lad? I can take ye by the cafeteria for a snack on our way upstairs,” she offered.

Fergus didn’t want to stop but if she was really going to show him up…

“I could enjoy a piece of bread,” he said as she came around the desk to take his hand and lead him away.

“I just need to stop at the nurse’s station for a moment to send someone else to cover the desk,” she informed him, “then straight to the food.”

Fergus wasn’t allowed to take his bread or the apple Nurse MacGregor scrounged for him out of the cafeteria. When he tried to gobble them down quickly she admonished him and began lecturing him about the hazards of choking until he slowed down and chewed properly.

“Can we go to see her now? I dinna want her to be alone,” he repeated.

“She’s no alone,” Nurse MacGregor assured him. “She has Nurse Donalson wi’ her along wi’ the doctor. Yer mam has friends here so ye needa worry so much. Come; I’m goin’ to take ye a special way.”

The hallway was brightly lit despite it being the middle of the night and one of the walls had glass windows running along its length.

“Can ye see?” Nurse MacGregor asked nodding to the windows.

Fergus frowned then looked in to find a row of bassinets with little signs on them. Several were empty but most contained swaddled infants sleeping or crying, straining against the blankets that restricted their movements.

“Ah!” Nurse MacGregor exclaimed, startling Fergus. “She was right.”

“ Qui ? Right about what?”

“Nurse Donalson. She said it wouldna be much longer and she was right. That’s the bairn there.” She pointed to a bassinet decorated with pink bows at the corners.

Beauchamp, Brianna was written on the little sign at the baby’s feet. Everything about the baby was pink from her blanket and cap to her round cheeks and tiny mouth. She’d gotten one fist free of the blankets at some point and had it tucked up by her chin.

“She seems a calm one now,” Nurse MacGregor remarked.

But Fergus wasn’t listening. All his attention was on the slumbering bundle in the bassinet.

“Brianna,” he whispered, pressing his nose to the glass.

Chapter Text

Fergus sat in his chair with his arms braced on the edge of Brianna’s bassinette and one hand hanging in enough for her to grasp his finger. Her tiny fingernails had just been cut but already seemed to have grown out enough to feel like needles when she squeezed tight. She was fighting her nap and Fergus had assured Mother Claire that he would be able to get the baby to sleep while she finished getting their home ready for their Christmas guests.

Brianna’s green velvet Christmas dress was safely concealed beneath the tartan blanket that Mrs. Graham had helped Mother Claire fashion from the arisaid she’d worn on her journey through the stones. It had faded a bit with washing but when it was tucked up close about Brianna’s chin and wisps of her bright hair fell across it Fergus would trace the pattern of the Fraser tartan and recall the way Milord had looked wearing it as he stood in the sun overlooking the fields at Lallybroch as potatoes were harvested or as he draped the length of his plaid about his head and shoulders for warmth in the rain.

In the quiet moments when Mother Claire asked him to keep an eye on Brianna as she completed a chore or if she fell asleep, exhausted in the middle of an afternoon, Fergus would lapse into French and whisper stories to Brianna; stories about Milord, about Lallybroch, about France.

“J'ai couru et couru et il m'a poursuivi,” Fergus said quietly as Brianna’s eyes looked up at him, unfocused, and her other fist was in her mouth. “Bien sûr, qu'il m'a attrapé. Mais il ne m'a pas fait de mal; il m'a offert un emploi. Oui, ton père a fait ça.” He leaned in and kissed her tiny knuckles where they clung to his finger. Her eyes were beginning to drift shut. “C'est la raison pour laquelle je suis ton frère… il y a plus, mais nous sauverons cette histoire pour plus tard.”

He heard the front door shut and the boisterous welcomes of Claire to her guests then Roger’s eager footsteps came scurrying down the hallway in search of him. Before the door had even opened, Fergus was halfway across the room hushing his friend.

“Whatever you do, do not wake Bree,” Fergus hissed before glancing over his shoulder to see that she hadn’t moved. The hand that had been clutching his finger was pressed to her chubby cheek, fingers splayed while the drool-covered fist that had been in her mouth rested on the bedding next to her head leaving a damp spot underneath it. The tartan blanket rose and fell with her deep and steady breathing.

“Ye mean we’ll no get to play wi’ her?” Roger asked straining to look past Fergus to see the bairn he’d heard so much about from Mrs. Graham and from Fergus at school. He’d only seen her once at the hospital when they’d gone to pick Fergus up and a few times from a distance when Mrs. Beauchamp came to drop Fergus off to play or pick him up again.

“Trust me, you do not want to play with her when she is needing a nap,” Fergus warned leading the way out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. “When she is not in a right mood she cries and that is not fun for anyone.”

“Is she asleep then, Fergus?” Claire asked as the boys appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She and Mrs. Graham were working at the counter and the oven door was hanging open, heat and the smell of cooking meat wafting deliciously into their faces.

“ Oui ,” he told her reaching for a pastie on the counter. Mrs. Graham raised her eyebrows at him and shook her head but smiled as he took a second and held it out for Roger.

“Supper should be ready in an hour or so,” Claire informed him. “Why don’t you go show Roger some of the gifts you got?”

Fergus nodded and turned to take Roger to his room.

Hearing about Christmas at school, Fergus had come home and asked Mother Claire about the holiday and how it was celebrated.

“We did not celebrate in such ways at Lallybroch but you have said many things in this time are different,” he’d speculated as he lay on his back on the floor tossing a small ball into the air and catching it. Mother Claire had been rocking in a chair with Brianna nursing at her breast.

“Yes, Christmas is one of the holidays we celebrate differently in this time,” Claire said but there was a somber tone as she said it brushing the hair down on Brianna’s small and delicate head. “It’s more like the Hogmanay celebrations we had that first year back at Lallybroch; a time you spend with family and friends. You feast and there are presents.”

“It is a time that is making you miss Milord,” he observed quietly, watching her carefully and holding the ball tightly in his fist, interrupting the rhythm of tossing and catching he’d established.

Mother Claire’s eyes remained fixed on the baby’s intent gaze and strong, suckling mouth.

“Yes and no. I miss him always,” she responded quietly then stroked Brianna’s cheek with the tip of her finger. Brianna released her hold on Mother Claire’s nipple, a dribble of breast milk leaking from the corner of her mouth and making a path down her jaw and into the deepening folds of her neck while Mother Claire eased the drained breast back into her nursing bra and shifted the still-hungry infant so she could access and feed on the other breast. “It would have meant so much to him to see the both of you doing so well and it makes me sad that he can’t be here to share this time with us.” She finally looked away from the baby and caught Fergus watching her, pushing a small smile to her face. “I told him a little about what Christmases in this time were like and I know that he would want you to enjoy it as much as you can; he wouldn’t want us to mope at a time meant to be happy.”

And she had told him then of her plan to invite Roger, Reverend Wakefield, and Mrs. Graham over for the holiday. Mrs. Graham would only be staying a short time since she had her children and grandchildren to spend some of the day with but Reverend Wakefield and Roger didn’t have obligations beyond each other and readily accepted the invitation.

“Oh,” Roger interrupted before they could leave the kitchen. “We brought ye a gift.” The younger boy pulled Fergus in a different direction seeking his adoptive father in the small living room.

Reverend Wakefield stood examining the pair of bookshelves that stood on either side of the television, squinting at Claire’s odd collection of medical and herbal texts. He turned when the boys entered the room and the lines standing between his eyes dissolved, reappearing at the corners in the form of laugh lines. “Happy Christmas to ye, Fergus. Yer mother told me ye’ve had a good mornin’,” Reverend Wakefield said cheerfully.

“Can we give Fergus his gift now, Father?” Roger asked looking up into the taller man’s face with pleading eyes.

Reverend Wakefield’s mouth turned down a bit at the edges into an expression meant to be stern but which in effect proved rather comical. “Now, I dinna see it will be a problem to give it to him now but ye lads must promise ye’ll no be usin’ it in the house; it’s strictly for playin’ out of doors.”

“Of course, Father,” Roger promised turning away from his father’s warning looks to search the room for the gift. He spotted it and ran to get it taking care to block Fergus’ view while he picked it up and then turned with a showman’s flair.

In his arms rested a brand new football with a shining red ribbon tied around its middle like a jolly belt.

“Let’s go ask yer mam if we can go outside to play wi’ it till supper’s ready,” Roger suggested.

“All right but we must play on the side of the house where Bree will not hear us and wake,” Fergus offered as a condition. Roger kept tight hold of the ball as they hastened to the kitchen to ask permission to go outside. Permission granted and warnings issued about the consequences of dirt leaving the ground and finding its way onto clothes, the boys disappeared through the door with Reverend Wakefield following in order to watch and keep them on their best behavior.

Claire and Mrs. Graham smiled as they made tea for themselves to enjoy while the food finished cooking.

“Ye seem to be managing all right on yer own wi’ the bairn,” Mrs. Graham remarked glancing around the kitchen and to the living room beyond. There was a fair bit of clutter but most of it appeared to be the result of having to move furniture in order to accommodate the small evergreen in the corner of the living room as well as the bulky trappings that come with newborns. It was a lived-in home, a place that sheltered children who were loved.

“For now,” Claire remarked with a tired sigh. “I still have time to figure something out for when it’s time to return to work at the hospital.”

“Ye do,” Mrs. Graham agreed, “so do what ye can to enjoy the day.”

“I’m trying and it helps having you here––and having Roger for Fergus to play with. It’s just… a year ago–– two years ago… If you’d told me I would be here…”

“It doesna do to dwell,” Mrs. Graham interjected. Out the window they could see that the ball had been divested of its ribbon and Fergus had woven it through the belt loops on his trousers, an act that had Roger howling with laughter while Reverend Wakefield watched with a broad smile. “It’s turning to a particularly good Christmas for Roger too. He’s no had much in the way of playmates before yer Fergus came and the Reverend too hasna had family beyond the lad to celebrate with in some time.”

Brianna cried from down the hall and Claire quickly set her tea down to retrieve the baby and calm her; it was too early for her to be hungry and Claire didn’t want to have to change her shirt. She came back to the kitchen with Brianna held to her shoulder, the tartan blanket folded and tossed over her shirt for the baby to rest against.

“Someone doesn’t want to miss all the action, no matter how tired she is,” Claire remarked as Mrs. Graham approached to look the tired baby in her bright blue eyes and give her a pat on her back.

“Yer life may no be what ye’d expected or hoped two years ago,” Mrs. Graham said quietly as Brianna’s eyes closed again, her mouth hanging open. “But ye’ve got one to be lived and ones to live it with and for. Ye can mourn––and ye will… That part doesna go away. But ye’ll have joy in what ye have left of yer man in his child and though that lad out there mayna be his son by blood…”

Claire smiled and looked to see Fergus laughing with Roger, miming something undoubtedly inappropriate with their backs turned to Reverend Wakefield. Brianna was a warm solid weight clutched over her heart.

“He might not be Jamie’s by blood, but Fergus does carry a bit of Jamie with him,” Claire finished Mrs. Graham’s thought. The three of them would keep Jamie alive.

“Here,” Mrs. Graham said, pulling a small wrapped parcel out for Claire. “Perhaps ye can start some new traditions of yer own.”

It was tricky getting the wrappings undone with one hand but since Brianna’s birth Claire had found her skills in such tasks developing rapidly.

A book of classic Christmas stories, poems, and songs from Dickens to O. Henry, Hans Christian Anderson to Moore, Longfellow, Frost and Blake.

“Thank you,” Claire said quietly to Mrs. Graham. She was familiar with most of the stories in the book and had even outlined a few of them for Jamie on cold and quiet nights as they lay wrapped in the darkness and each other’s warmth. He’d been a born story-teller and enjoyed learning new ones from her. He would have loved telling their children stories at night; she could already feel the warmth of his arms around her as though he were standing behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder so he could look down at the book in her hands. Brianna stirred in her arms without waking as though she’d been brushed by something––or someone––too.

“Happy Christmas, Claire,” Mrs. Graham wished her softly.

“Happy Christmas.”

Chapter Text

Fergus hesitated to get out of the car. He had stayed over at the manse at least half a dozen times but then it had always just been the two of them, Roger and himself. They had slept in Roger’s bedroom flipping a coin to see who would take the bed and who got the cot on the floor.

This time there would be several other boys from school and Fergus wasn’t quite sure what to make of the prospect.

“He said we’d be camping,” Fergus explained to Claire as she eased the new car through the streets towards the manse.

Brianna gurgled in the strange basket on the seat beside Fergus. It was mostly stuffed with blankets and pillows to keep Brianna well cushioned when they went around corners. Fergus liked to drape his arm over the top to keep it in place as well and he knew Mother Claire relaxed when she looked into the mirror and saw him watching protectively over his little sister. Brianna found it great fun too pulling one of the blankets over her face and then laughing when Fergus pulled it off again. Her gummy grin brought a smile of pride to his face and he reached into the basket to tickle her cheek, setting off a riot of giggles.

“Is there something wrong with camping?” Claire asked when they stopped to let a trio of pedestrians cross.

“Camping is for armies or if you are traveling and cannot find a place to stay,” Fergus complained. “It is not something to be done when a proper bed is near. Why would anyone enjoy to sleep in the cold and the dirt and the mud?”

Claire was glad Fergus couldn’t see the full extent of her amusement from his seat in the back.

“Making camp is one of the things that’s different in this time––for the most part,” she tried to explain. “For one thing, most of the children have only had beds to sleep in. Even during the war, special care was taken to get the children to safe places. The beds may have been crowded and the rooms dar, but they were usually safe and warm too.”

“So they find the dirt and such interesting because it is different?” Fergus sounded less disbelieving and more fascinated. “Like when Bree wishes to play with the red ball instead of the blue even though they are the same.”

As though to underscore her agreement, Brianna screeched and pulled hard on Fergus’ arm, demanding his attention. He gave her his hand and she promptly pulled his fingers to her mouth so she could gnaw on his knuckles.

“Yes,” Claire concurred, turning her head to check the way was clear before easing through the intersection. “It’s a novelty. And they do some fun games and things too. Probably tell ghost stories and use a telescope to look at the stars.”

“Is this why I must bring something to give to Roger? To say my thanks for being asked and so we will have the games to play?”

“The present is for Roger’s birthday. It’s how they’re celebrated in this time. Friends and family have a party and the birthday person receives gifts.”

Fergus sighed and pulled his finger from Brianna’s mouth looking carefully at the skin to see if her new teeth had finally broken through and left a mark. They hadn’t so he wiped the drool from her chin as she blew bubbles. He gave her one of the strange toys to chew on. They were hard like wood at the core but had an odd and colorful coating on top of that, some material that didn’t chip or splinter and was soft enough not to hurt Bree when she bit down hard.

It was unlike anything he’d seen for children before but then there were many things about this time that were like that; sometimes it was more overwhelming than others and this was one of those times.

“How did you manage, Mother Claire?” he asked. “You lived for years in a time not belonging to you. I never would have known did I not follow you here. How is it you found your way so easy?”

She laughed. “It wasn’t easy and I did have help with most of it,” she remarked.

“Milord,” Fergus nodded looking down at Brianna. It was incredible how much the chubby-cheeked babe looked like her father. His eyes shone from her face and his hair gleamed on her crown… but her laugh was all her own.

Claire’s voice was somber as she responded, “Yes. I had Jamie. I didn’t tell him right away but he did know fairly early… And where I went backwards there’s the advantage of having some idea of what you’re going to find,” she added, moving on to the less painful side of the matter. “Even if you don’t study it specifically or know a lot you can’t help absorbing something of the past simply by living. It’s the future that leaves you blind… even then… trying to change things… I still don’t know if what we did had any impact one way or another…”

Fergus reached forward and rested a hand on her shoulder, snapping her from her reverie.

“You and Milord impacted me,” he assured her quietly. “And Bree. We would not be here.”

Claire smiled at Fergus in the rearview mirror and blinked back her tears before pulling to a stop and parking the car.

“Are you ready for Roger’s birthday party?”

Fergus stared out the window at the manse. There were two or three of the boys from his class saying goodbye to their parents, eager to move on to the fun and games ahead.

“Are all birthday parties like this?” he asked, his face scrunched with anticipatory disgust.

“Many are… but they don’t have to be. You can have whatever kind of birthday party you…” She stopped herself and looked carefully at Fergus. “Oh, darling…” she murmured.

“If this is what birthday parties are, I’m not sure I mind not having one,” he declared, quietly resolute.

“You don’t know when your birthday is,” Claire stated.

“Madame Elise sometimes said it was spring and that my disposition was sunny for that, but when I displeased her she would say it was my winter coming out.”

“March,” Claire said with some certainty, enough to draw Fergus’ attention to her. A smile crept across her face. “They say that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.”

A light lit Fergus’ face. “It was in March that Milord found me and brought me home to you.”

“Do you remember which day?”

Fergus puzzled for a moment before shrugging.

“Near to Easter, I think, but I cannot be sure was it the 23rd or the 24th.”

“Well, pick one and we’ll make that your birthday––the day you became a Fraser. We’ve overshot March by a few weeks now, but we’ll find a way to celebrate it; just the three of us if that’s all you want.”

Fergus grinned. “I will think which day I like. But now I must do the camping.” He stuck his head between the headrests to kiss Claire’s cheek.

“Wish me luck,” he said with resignation that made Claire laugh as the car door closed behind him and she watched him head for the door with Roger’s gift tucked under his arm.

When Claire returned the next morning to retrieve Fergus, she found him in much better spirits if a little tired.

“Have you had a change of heart about camping?” she asked with an amused smile.

“No, I still prefer a bed that is inside but I most definitely want to have a birthday party. The games were enjoyable––I was the most skilled at the game of picking up sticks and I showed everyone games for playing cards and won most of their sweets but when the Reverend and Mrs. Graham discovered this they made us stop and I had to return the candy,” Fergus rattled on as Claire negotiated the drive home. “I have decided I want my birthday to be the 24th and I want a present like the one Rabbie gave to Roger––they are shoes with wheels on the bottoms.”

“I take it you want some of the boys from school to come,” Claire guessed with a chuckle.

“ Oui , I have already invited them.”

Chapter Text

Claire was thoroughly exasperated by the time she arrived at the school and extricated an over-tired Brianna from the car. The sound of her cries echoed through the halls as Claire struggled to recall the way to Fergus’ teacher’s office.

She knew she must be headed in the right direction when she spotted Reverend Wakefield leading an ashamed-looking Roger toward her.

“Good evening, Claire,” he said when they were close enough to pause and talk. Claire bounced Brianna a bit and the baby calmed down.

“I only wish it was a good evening, Reg, but it looks like both of us have had to change our plans a bit,” she remarked, looking down at Roger who went red in the face. Actually, he appeared to have a bruise developing on his cheek. Claire prayed it wasn’t Fergus who had given it to him, though the two boys were close friends, so she doubted that was the reason she’d been summoned.

“Then perhaps it would be better if I said, ‘good luck,’” Reverend Wakefield replied.

“Thank you.” With a nod, they squeezed past each other and Claire continued to the teacher’s office.

Fergus sat in a chair in the hallway. He slouched so his feet could reach the floor, the grey wool of his sweater had rolled up several inches and the white shirt beneath was not just visible, it had come untucked from his trousers. Claire was struck by how normal he appeared—how normal she felt. Not that either of them were abnormal, precisely—though their proven traveling capabilities certainly were. It had been a little over a year since their arrival in the twentieth century and yet Fergus looked like any number of the other boys at school getting into scrapes and requiring a meeting with his new teacher.

She only wished it could have been any other day or some manner of academic offense rather than a disciplinary one that meant a call to her at the hospital and being pulled out of a surgery she was sure she would be quizzed on in her studies.

Fergus’ curly head popped up when he heard her approach with Brianna.

“Mother Claire!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in the chair. “You must speak to Mistress Lowe. She says what I told the others was inappropriate but it was only the truth. She will listen to you. And I didn’t even say any of it until we were on break, so I was not intending to be disrespectful to anyone,” Fergus babbled.

“That’ll be enough, Mr. Beauchamp,” Mistress Lowe said from the office doorway.

Claire turned to the teacher and adjusted Brianna on her hip. Brianna continued to cry.

Mistress Lowe’s mouth twitched with annoyance but she bowed her head and held the office door open for them.

Seated in Claire’s lap and turned to face Fergus, Brianna began to settle, her tears drying on her cheeks, stained red from the efforts of her fussing.

“I apologize for summoning ye to meet like this,” Mistress Lowe said as she took her seat behind her desk.

“Then you should apologize to Mr. Craigh and Dr. Chisholm as well,” Claire retorted, already brushing uncomfortably against the teacher’s patronizing attitude. Mistress Lowe looked surprised and confused. “Your initial call interrupted the surgery I was assisting with and when you insisted on holding Fergus after school rather than releasing him to Mrs. Graham’s care, It meant another interruption. I certainly hope whatever the infraction is, it’s worth half my day’s pay, the loss of a valuable learning opportunity for me, and the risks to the patient in my care.”

Mistress Lowe was taken aback for a moment and doubt flashed in her eyes. Claire knew she was laying it on thick but it was the judgement from the secretary who had called Claire at work and she explained that, no, she couldn’t come down just then because she was working and could a meeting be scheduled for another afternoon; it was the concern and guild in Mrs. Graham’s voice when she told Claire a short time later that Fergus hadn’t arrived at his usual time; it was the stubborn set of Fergus’ jaw as he stared at Mistress Lowe and waited for her accusations.

Fergus was defiant and quietly so. His expression reminded her of Jamie when Dougal tore the shirt from his back. There was a righteousness to that brand of anger. When Fergus was guilty of some mischief, he went out of his way to act innocent (usually unconvincingly). He was never baldly defiant.

“I believe it is,” Mistress Lowe finally responded. “Ye see, we had a disruption this afternoon and yer Fergus seems to be the source of what was said—something that’s sure to have many upset parents telephoning or dropping in to lodge complaints.”

“And what did Fergus allegedly say?”

“I don’t know the particulars, but my understanding is that over luncheon for several days now, he’s been telling the lads stories of an… explicit nature.” Mistress Lowe narrowed her eyes at Fergus who understood he was in trouble but failed to see why he should be ashamed.

“I only told them what les filles used to tell me at Maison Elise,” he informed Claire.

Mistress Lowe clenched her jaw and raised her eyebrows at Claire as if to say, “see?”

“Did one of the boys take offense?” Claire inquired. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you mean by an altercation…”

“One of the lads in class voiced his opposition to the science and nutrition lesson today,” Mistress Lowe explained. “Said it was in contradiction to what Fergus had had to say on the matter. The situation deteriorated quickly from there as friends of yer lad took issue with the lad mentioning Fergus by name, presumably fearing he would get into trouble and his stories would cease.”

Fergus rolled his eyes but Claire stopped him contradicting the teacher outright with a look.

“You said you don’t know all the particulars. I take it you haven’t heard Fergus tell any of these alleged tales yourself. What about the other teachers? Have any of them overheard him?” In her arms, Brianna had calmed enough to look back and forth between Claire and the teacher, her fingers in her mouth.

“No…” Mistress Lowe said, defensively. “But as I said, he shares them with the other lads expressly when our attention is elsewhere.”

“Allegedly,” Claire reiterated. “So on one has told you exactly what stories Fergus is supposed to have told?”

“One of the lads in the altercation shared one and may yet share more as he seems inclined to cooperate.”

“A child eager to get himself out of trouble?” Claire’s thick skepticism brought color to the other woman’s cheeks. “It sounds to me like children causing trouble amongst themselves—which I certainly don’t think was worth you calling my away from work or worrying my nanny.”

“Mrs. Beauchamp—” Mistress Lowe objected, raising herself straighter in the chaire.

“I’m through discussing this. I’m taking my son home,” she declared, rising.

“The lad said himself that he shared stories with the others during breaks,” Mistress Lowe continued.

“Stories about his time at the orphanage in France,” Claire said, turning on the other woman again and causing her to start. “Stories about his experiences during the war. I’m sure not all of them were happy stories—I know not all of mind from my days at the field hospital are—but to call them inappropriate… to even hint that  we ought not speak about those days… To forget them and not share them is to leave space for such things to happen again. Come along, Fergus. Let’s go home and see about our supper.”

Fergus followed Claire out of the office, keeping his expression controlled until Mistress Lowe couldn’t see his confusion. Was he in trouble or wasn’t he? What about Roger who had hit the other boy to keep him quiet and keep Fergus out of trouble.

When they reached the car and had pulled away from the school, Claire scolded Fergus.

“You cannot tell the other boys about Maison Elise,” she said. “You can’t tell them anything about the stones or how we came here, but especially Maison Elise… It’s too dangerous. Someone might think you belong in a madhouse or that you’re trying to cause trouble.”

“Can I not tell even Roger the truth? Fergus asked with a whine. “Or Mrs. Graham? She tells stories about the fairy stones. I’m sure she would believe me.”

“It is easier to stay in practice by telling no one… If you need to talk about it, talk to me. And when I need to talk about it, I’ll talk to you too.”

Fergus sighed and leaned his forehead against the car window.

“I miss Milord,” he murmured.

“I miss him, too,” Claire agreed softly.

Chapter Text

Brianna lurched forward in Claire’s arms as she sat next to Mrs. Graham watching Fergus with Roger and Reverend Wakefield. Claire shifted her second arm to reinforce her hold on Brianna who gurgled happily as she straightened back up with half a leaf from the nearby bush clutched in her fingers.

Fergus stood next to his bicycle carefully watching as Reverend Wakefield instructed the two boys in what to do.

Brianna shoved the leave at her eyes before screeching in her ear. Pulling Brianna further away to prevent herself going deaf and blind, Claire kept her attention on Fergus.

Roger had ridden on tricycles before and had deeply embedded knowledge of bicycles and the theory behind how to interact with them.

Fergus did not.

When one of the doctors at the hospital had remarked about the expense of buying his son a new bicycle because the boy had outgrown his old one, Claire had jumped in asking if he would sell the old one. She’d bought it from him before she realized fully what it was she was doing.

She justified it by calling it a birthday present for him—though the birthday he’d chosen for himself had been celebrated several months before. When he reminded her of the fact, she responded that he was back-owed a few birthdays’ worth of gifts. Fergus grinned and didn’t argue anymore.

The grin had faded when it came time to learn how to ride the bicycle.

He’d swung his leg over easily enough but fell before he could get both feet on the pedals. After a few more frustrating tries, Claire had suggested he try learning with Roger and Reverend Wakefield. She hoped seeing someone else struggle through mastering the skill would help.

But Roger was picking it up faster and Fergus was becoming discouraged.

Brianna had gotten the bit of leaf near enough to her mouth for drool to coat one side and as she’d fought to maneuver it into her mouth, she’d instead gotten it stuck to her cheek. Now she could see a small sliver of it stuck there but consistently missed it as she reached up to try to remove it.

Claire smiled and peeled the leaf fragment off, flicking it away rather than let Brianna chew on it. Brianna pouted at her in response but giggled when Claire bopped her on the nose before sitting her on the ground in front of Mrs. Graham.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on her and making sure she doesn’t eat any grass or insects?” Claire asked as she picked up a knitted toy cow and handed it to Brianna. One of the steer’s sagging horns went straight into her mouth.

“Aye, we’ll keep one another company,” Mrs. Graham smiled at Brianna who was looking up at Mrs. Graham over her shoulder with the toy cow dangling from her mouth.

Claire crossed to where Reverend Wakefield was helping Roger to find his balance as he cautiously lifted his feet off the ground and onto the bicycle’s pedals. Fergus stood with his bicycle leaning against his hip and one hand on the handle bar to hold it steady but he still hadn’t tried getting onto the seat.

Reverend Wakefield turned as Claire approached and gave her a subtle nod before telling Roger to pedal for all he was worth. Holding the back of Roger’s bicycle to keep him upright, Reverend Wakefield and Roger made their way down the drive leaving Claire and Fergus to themselves.

“Don’t you want to try?” she asked.

Fergus shrugged. “It’s silly child’s play. A knows he is a man when he handles his horse with skill. This is not a beast to tame so there is no real honor in mastering it.”

Claire fought the urge to snort. “You’re right. It’s not a horse. Which means it doesn’t need to be fed nor cleaned up after and doesn’t require a barn or a field to own. And whether you ride it or not, you and I both know you can handle a horse on your own.”

He looked to her and bit the inside of his cheek, still not convinced.

“I would prefer to learn to control the car,” he told her. “Then you could tend to Bree in the back seat.”

She laughed. “Someday perhaps, but you’ve a way to go yet. Do you know the saying, you need to learn to crawl before you can walk? Well, you need to learn to ride a bicycle before you can drive a car. Up you go.”

Resigned at last, Fergus swung a leg over the bicycle and settled awkwardly onto the seat. Claire took hold of the handlebar on one side and the seat with her other hand, keeping Fergus steady.

“We’ll just walk to start so your legs grow accustomed to the way the pedals move, then we can go faster on the next pass,” she told him.

“Put her into a canter?”

“With bicycles it’s called switching gears but let’s not put the cart before the horse,” she joked.

Fergus laughed and relaxed a bit more.

“Ready… and… pedal,” she said, pushing the bicycle forward with all her might.

Each turn of the pedals required less effort from Claire to push it forward as Fergus’ coordination caught up with him.

Within three passes, Fergus found his balance. A few more and Claire was finding it difficult to keep up. Before they left to take hungry and whiny Brianna home for dinner and bed, Fergus had ridden the entire length of the drive on his own and had only fallen three times the entire day.

“You’ll need to practice in order to improve,” Claire reminded him that night. “But it won’t be long before you’ll be able to ride your bicycle all the way across town. With supervision,” she amended.

“Will I be able to ride it across Scotland?” he challenged.

“You can ride bicycles almost anywhere. And as with horses, there are races where people ride their bicycles. There’s a rather long one in France,” she told him.

His eyes went wide for a moment, then he looked away briefly, thinking. “I think someday I would like to see it again—to see what it has become. And I should like for Bree to see it.”

“I should like that too,” Claire agreed.

Chapter Text

Thank goodness for Fergus, Claire thought as she listened to him reading to Brianna in the other room. It was impossible for her to sit up without her head spinning and her stomach lurching. But if she didn’t at least make the effort it was impossible to breathe.

She had called Mrs. Graham who had immediately offered what help she could but there was only so much the older woman could do. She’d brought soup and other food that only needed a little heating in the oven—which Fergus could handle, though Claire knew he must mutter about it—and Mrs. Graham had also taken a bit of laundry back with her to the manse, promising to return it the next day when she came to check in on them again.

It was also, thankfully, the weekend and Claire was off of work. Fergus had only a little schoolwork to complete. And Brianna had finished cutting a new tooth and was back to being her babbling and cooperative self.

But in truth, Claire was too physically miserable to give any concern more than a cursory consideration. She just wanted— needed —to sleep and get over whatever flu it was that somehow managed to leave her both shivering and sweating at the same time.

She dozed, waking when she heard a faint knock near the door.

She squinted to find Fergus standing with Brianna in his arms, squirming to get down.

“Where are les couches ?”

Claire sighed then began to push herself up to a sitting position. She had to pause before she found the strength to move her legs around to the side of the bed and pause again with her head between her knees to make stop the room spinning.

“Mamamama,” Brianna cried, lunging for Claire and causing Fergus to lurch in order to maintain his hold of her.

“I’m coming, Bree,” Claire croaked but once he’d regained a firm footing, Fergus hefted Brianna into a more secure hold and shook his head, stepping back as Claire made it to her feet and began to approach.

“ Non , Mother Claire,” he scolded. “You must return to bed and rest. I can take care of Bree and will see her put to bed.”

“It’s fine, Fergus,” Claire insisted, trying to clear her throat but triggering a coughing fit instead. As she turned away to avoid coughing on her children, a whiff of Brianna’s soiled diaper made it through her clogged nasal passages and sent her running for the bathroom.

The cool, smooth floor and the chill of the porcelain basin were reassuringly solid beneath her trembling body. She decided to stay there for a while rather than confirm her fears that the only way she could reach her bed again would be if she crawled. She thought she’d heard Brianna crying but when she focused enough to listen she heard only silence. Lying down and pulling a bath towel over her like a blanket, she told herself she would need to ask Fergus about the contents of Brianna’s diaper, a brief bolt of fear shooting through her that her young and vulnerable daughter might contract the flu that was tormenting her. While her own symptoms had begun as a cold, there were some for whom digestive issues were the first sign of illness.

Sleep claimed her before her fear for Brianna grew to encompass Fergus’ welfare too.

It was impossible for her to tell how long she’d been on the floor of the bathroom when she roused again—not to vomit but because of a cramp in her leg from how she’d been lying. Her stomach felt settled enough for her to attempt returning to bed once the feeling had returned to her leg. She sat up and slowly shifted on the floor, her foot knocking something in the process.

She found a plate with dry toast and a glass of water—her foot having knocked the plate and missed the glass. There was a note as well, though she couldn’t read it in the dark. Of course, it wasn’t as though Brianna could have left it for her.

The water first—just a few sips. It both soothed and tickled her throat so that she nearly had another coughing fit. But the liquid settled comfortably in her stomach so she drank a little more and waited again. A wave of violent hunger washed over her as the intake of water triggered her stomach’s need for more. The toast was cold and plain and delicious. She nibbled it cautiously, struggling to take her own professional advice not to overdo it. When there was nothing left but the crumbs, she reached the plate and cup up to rest them on the edge of the counter and pulled herself to her shaking feet.

She was still chilled—the towel hadn’t been as warm a blanket as she needed—but she could move again without waves of nausea knocking her back to her knees. And though there remained a fog in her head, it no longer pressed in on her nose and eyes with the painful pressure that had been there before.

For the first time in a day and a half Claire could smell enough to smell herself. She smelled of vomit, even though she couldn’t find any traces on her person—to be frank, she didn’t have the energy to look very hard. The thought of a bath was nice. The steam should help with her lingering congestion and the heat would soothe the achy feeling in her limbs.

She should clean up a bit first. The plate and cup needed to be returned to the kitchen and based on the light, it was the middle of the night. She should check on Fergus and Brianna, ensure there was something Fergus could easily make for their breakfast in a few hours. Mrs. Graham wouldn’t be by again until midday but Fergus should be able to keep Brianna fed, cleaned, and occupied until then.

Had the kitchen always been so far from her bedroom?

By the time she reached the kitchen sink, she was afraid she’d drop the glass and plate and shatter them against whatever else might be in there so she simply left them on the counter before sinking to the floor and resting her forehead against the cool surface of the cabinetry that shielded the pipes. If it felt so cool to her touch, she must still be quite feverish. Or perhaps she felt so weak because she needed more to eat. The toast and water were all she’d managed to keep down in what must be close to two days.

A bit more toast and she’d have the energy to move again. The loaf of bread was still right near the toaster from when Fergus had made what he’d left for her in the bathroom. She only needed to stand… and lean against the counter. Better yet, sit on the floor some more while it cooked.

Fergus shook her shoulder and whispered harshly in her face. “What are you doing out here, Mother Claire? You are going to burn the house down if you take not more care.”

Claire blinked and gasped, started from her doze and then she coughed as the lingering wisps of smoke crawled down her throat and into her lungs.

Fergus had removed the singed toast from the toaster and set them on a plate near the window to be tossed out for the birds in the morning. Claire would have scoffed if she weren’t fighting to control her coughing and the gag reflex that it threatened to trigger. The toast wasn’t that badly burned and the smoke that it had created was little more than what might rise from the wick of a blown out candle. Besides, the toaster had done what it was supposed to and had popped the bread up when it was done—it was only the lower edge closest to the still-hot coils that were a bit singed.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Claire asked, her throat scratchy from all the coughing. She pulled herself to standing and attempted to look down at Fergus, reinforcing her authority as the parent. Except she didn’t have to look down far. He’d shot up more in his recent growth spurt than she’d realized. It wouldn’t be long before her surpassed her in height.

“I heard you banging out here as you had your fight with the toaster,” he explained.

She had had difficulty getting the bread into the thing in the near dark but she thought she’d been quieter about it.

“Are you feeling well again, Mother Claire?” Fergus asked, his eyes narrowing at her. “Did you eat what I left for you?”

“Yes,” she responded in a hissed whisper. “And it did me good so I thought I would make a little more for myself to eat. I can’t keep lying in bed when you and Bree—”

“Bree and I will be better with you in bed than with you in l’hopital ,” he scolded. “Is it not you who always say not to do so much when you are ill as it will take longer for you to recover?”

Claire desperately wanted to protest but she couldn’t argue with herself and Fergus knew it only too well.

“Back to your bed with you,” he ushered her out of the kitchen. “I will make you edible toast and bring more for you to drink.”

“There should be some oatmeal in the cupboard for you to make parritch for your breakfast,” Claire explained as she accepted defeat. “And Mrs. Graham will stop by in time for luncheon. If you have trouble getting Bree dressed or if she fusses at all—”

“I can take care of my women,” Fergus assured her firmly, ignoring her as she rolled her eyes. “I will do what Milord would if he were here, and he would see you put to bed and made to rest.”

Claire couldn’t have found words to argue with him even if she’d wanted to. He led her to her bed and indeed, tucked her in when she was beneath the covers.

She caught his wrist before he left.

“Milord would be very proud of you right now,” she told him. “Thank you, Fergus. For taking such good care of me and of your sister.”

“Milord would be amazed I convinced you without more of a fight,” Fergus admitted with a laugh. “Go to sleep now, maman . I will leave something for you when you awake.”

Chapter Text

Fergus sat in the back holding Brianna tightly in his lap. He worked to keep her distracted with the basket Claire had packed with their lunch in it but moving the handles back and forth on their squeaking hinges and flipping the latch open and shut failed to hold her interest.

“Is it much farther?” Fergus asked, trying not to whine as he fought to resettle Brianna only for her to violently arch her back in an attempt to slide out of his grip and onto the floor where she might try to climb under one of the front seats or pick at the dirt and trash trapped in the upholstery.

“You should start to recognize where we are soon,” Claire told him. She looked up to the rearview mirror and Fergus could tell from the way her eyes crinkled that she was smiling. At least, she was smiling when she first made eye contact with him. Then her eyes had taken in Brianna’s squirming and he heard her sigh as she slowed the car and made to pull over.

“She will be fine, Mother Claire,” Fergus insisted, turning Brianna around so she stood in his lap and faced out the back window. “If it is not much farther, she will be fine.” Brianna cooed and began slapping her hands on the back of the seat, bouncing with excitement and clearly pleased with her new perspective.

“You’re sure she doesn’t need a change?” Claire asked.

“You would smell it yourself if she did,” Fergus said with a laugh.

Claire laughed too and began to push the car back to its previous speed.

Fergus kept a secure hold on Brianna but turned his eyes to the passing scenery. “What do you mean I should recognize soon where we are? We are going to a place I have been before?”

“That’s right,” Claire told him.

“But we have never gone so far in the car,” he protested.

“You’re right,” Claire agreed with a teasing edge to her voice. “We haven’t been there before… by car .”

Brianna’s squeals of delight rang in his ears as Fergus ran through the possibilities of all the places he had traveled with Milord and Milady in that time before the stones.

“I did not pay attention to our direction leaving Inverness,” he lamented aloud. “Are we going to Edinburgh?”

“No. But hold on,” she said, slowing the car once more and pulling off onto the shoulder. Pulling up on the brake, she turned in her seat and rolled her eyes when she saw Fergus struggling to look around Brianna’s belly while she pulled his hair with one hand and reached for the back windshield with the other. “Sit tight. I’ll come around to get her.”

It only took a few moments for Claire to extricate Brianna from the back seat and encourage Fergus to step out and take a look.

They were at the top of a hill looking down into a shallow valley. A small loch was bordered by trees along the far side, swelling higher and higher as they trailed into the distance. The nearer side dipped a bit before leveling off into a flatter plain that had probably been farmland once upon a time. They were too far and too high to see what small cottages might lie nestled in the middle distance, but the disintegrating and crooked roof of one structure peeked above the treeline just where the forest began to thin.

“Do you recognize it yet?” Claire asked with a grin, watching Fergus for his reaction.

Fergus frowned at her which made Brianna giggle in her arms.

“I don’t think he does,” Claire whispered conspiratorially, inspiring more giggles.

“The roof there,” Fergus nodded in its direction. “It is familiar… but no, I cannot place it.”

“Bells are ringing a familiar tune but you can’t quite remember the words,” Claire mused. “Picture a trail of smoke rising off to the right a bit. And think about the shape of that roof.”

“It’s… round. Like perhaps it belongs to une tour ,” he worked through it aloud.

His eyes shot wide and his mouth fell open as he turned to Claire’s smiling face. Her eyes shone with the same emotion that made it impossible to voice the realization he’d just had.

“Won’t take more than another ten minutes,” Claire said, already maneuvering Brianna to get her back into the car. Fergus moved quickly, eager to reach the other side of those ten minutes.

He shuffled to the middle of the back seat and wouldn’t let Brianna stand in his lap to look out the back window anymore. He insisted she face front so she could see where they were going as the road dipped and they descended into the valley and the trees surrounded them.

“You must watch as we approach, ma sœur ,” he told her. “You will only see it for the first time once and even you, I believe, will remember it somewhere for always.”

They hadn’t stopped when they’d been journeying back from France. So close to home, they’d simply pushed on so Fergus hadn’t realized where they were until the trees began to part and the stone of Lallybroch rose before them, the yard and its activity flickering through the main gate and the house itself, tall and gazing down over that outer wall at them, granting them permission to enter and be welcome.

Claire, too, was thinking of the first time she’d seen Lallybroch. She and Jamie had taken turns talking the whole way from Craig na Dun—he asking questions about a future he would never see, she asking questions about the family she would never meet… and the ones she would. Her excitement—and nerves—built as she watched Jamie, noticed him searching for and finding markers invisible to her, markers that told him how much further. That final hill down into the forest was where they’d climbed down from the horse and walked the rest of the way, savoring each step, forcing them both to take their time.

She slowed the car as they approached the entry gate, the arch had crumbled along with several of the stones from the wall leaving gaps that allowed glimpses to the sorrowfully tired and weary main house. Fergus didn’t say anything either as Claire parked the car and turned it off but stayed in the driver’s seat, her hands on the steering wheel.

“Is there no one who lives here now?” he asked at last. He let Brianna down to stand and lean against the two front seats, poking her head through and grinning up at Claire.

Claire offered her a weak smile. Jamie would be glad for Brianna to see Lallybroch, even in its present state. He would be happy to know that the three of them were safe and healthy and none of them alone. That would have to be enough.

“No, I don’t believe anyone does. It means we won’t be able to go inside… but I think that may be for the best,” Claire explained, finally opening her door to come around and retrieve Brianna and their picnic things.

“ Oui ,” Fergus nodded, climbing out of the car and leaning on the door as his eyes took in the padlocked door, the boards nailed over the windows (some of them with cracked and missing panes of glass), the sagging roof that must be full of leaks… “I do not think I could walk those halls now. It would be too sad to see them and remember how they were—remember how it is supposed to smell with Mrs. Crook in the kitchen.”

“Mmmm,” Claire said, inhaling and catching a whiff of roasting venison conjured from memory. “She wouldn’t be impressed with what I managed to put together for our lunch if she were here. But I think we’d better pick a spot to lay our spread. Bree seems anxious to eat.”

Brianna had her fist in her mouth and was alternately blowing raspberries and gnawing on her fingers (leaving Claire soaking in drool).

They chose a spot on the far side of the yard in the shade of the trees and near where the dovecote used to be. It was a quiet meal, both Claire and Fergus too caught up in memory and the weight of suppressed grief to speak their thoughts aloud. Brianna chattered at both of them, offering them bites of her sandwich and smearing jam across her face. Unsatisfied with their distraction, she found a colony of ants who were better companions and started crawling after them, eager to share her food with someone who appreciated her generosity.

Claire retrieved her daughter and cleaned her up, dripping water from the canteen onto a cloth to wipe her face and hands, remembering doing the same for her nieces and nephew to help Jenny while they worked in the kitchen garden or soaked laundry. She was always a little consciously aware of the twinge in her chest knowing Jamie would never see his daughter grow up, but the pain began to grow and twist as she let the knowledge that Jenny, Ian, and so many others would never know Brianna either, and vice versa. Such a happy and exuberant child, always eager to meet and play with new people and she only had Claire and Fergus to call and experience as family, when she should have had so much. They weren’t alone, but sitting there, Claire was overwhelmed by absence.

“It is not home anymore,” Fergus said when Brianna had worn herself out and crawled into Claire’s lap to nap. “Not without Milord. Or the others.”

“It’s not,” Claire sadly agreed. “I’m sorry this wasn’t… I thought… I knew it would be difficult but I thought if we came together maybe… but it was a bad idea.”

“I am glad we have come and seen it,” Fergus asserted. “It is better to see it this way once. It is… putting ourselves to rest.”

“The difference between carrying them with us and letting them haunt us, perhaps,” Claire mused.

“ Exactement . It is not a place we can live anymore, but it is a place I think we must visit now and again.”

“Are you ready to go home then?”

Fergus nodded.

Chapter Text

When Fergus learned of the Tour de France race, his interest in mastering his new bicycle grew exponentially, much to Claire’s amusement (and trepidation).

“If you want to ride to the Manse to play with Roger that’s fine,” Claire told him as she gathered Brianna up and grabbed the keys to her car. “But I’m going to follow you to make sure you get there in one piece.”

Fergus rolled his eyes and protested. “I can ask Mrs. Graham to let me telephone when I have arrived and if you do not listen to me, she will be able to tell you how many pieces I am in.”

“If you don’t stop arguing, I’ll stay the whole time visiting with Mrs. Graham and then I’ll follow you home again.”

Fergus grumbled as he stormed out the door and from Claire’s arms Brianna mimicked her brother’s discontented expression, giggling when she saw Claire’s efforts not to laugh. From the tense set of Fergus’ shoulders as he rode, Claire suspected he continued his grumbling as his legs worked to propel him forward at a steady pace.

They arrived without incident and Claire informed Fergus she would allow him to ride home on his own when he was through, but that he was to call her first so that if he didn’t arrive back in a timely manner, she would know to go looking for him. Wisely, Fergus agreed without further objections and after he returned home both safely and at a decent hour, Claire began to let him ride his bicycle more freely about Inverness.

It wasn’t long before Roger and several of the other boys from their class were banding together for minor excursions. Claire, Mrs. Graham, and Reverend Wakefield were always careful to question the boys about their plans and gave them strict orders for when to be home and where to check in with parents along the way. They formed a network so that at any given time it was possible to track down the band on their bicycles should one of the boys require fetching or a message to pick something up at the shop on his way home need to be relayed.

“We ought to see if there’s a way to formalize their group wi’ the school,” Mrs. Graham suggested one day when Claire was dropping Brianna off before a rare Saturday shift. Fergus had hopped on his bicycle while Claire was still getting Brianna dressed and ready to go in the car, beating Claire to the manse easily as managing Brianna on her own meant the trip took twice as long.

“I would feel better if there were a teacher or someone accompanying them,” Claire agreed. “It isn’t that I don’t trust Fergus, it’s that the more of them that are going off together, the more likely they are to goad each other into doing something foolish and reckless.”

“It’s the way of all young folk from about the age of five through twenty-five,” Mrs. Graham chuckled. “At least ye’ve a few years yet before the lass starts followin’ suit.”

“Mmm, I’m not so sure,” Claire hedged, narrowing her eyes at Brianna who was kicking her feet trying to get Mrs. Graham to put her down. “Ever since she’s started walking, she’s been doing everything she can to keep up with Fergus and whatever he’s up to.”

Just over ten hours later, Claire returned to the manse to retrieve Brianna and see whether Fergus had the energy to bike home or if he wanted a ride with her. He and Roger had left their bicycles at either house on more than one occasion, fetching it again when they were through with school and free to ride some more.

That day, however, Claire didn’t see a pair of bicycles leaning against the outer wall of the manse where the boys usually parked them. And when she went inside, her knocks having gone unanswered, she found the reverend and Mrs. Graham pacing and muttering in the library, Brianna sitting on the floor watching them go back and forth, her pile of blocks neglected next to her.

“Hello?” Claire called again.

“Mama!” Brianna cried, struggling to her feet and lurching toward Claire with a block in each fist. Claire caught her before she tripped on the edge of the rug.

“Hello darling. Did you enjoy yourself today?” Claire kissed Brianna’s forehead and settled her on her hip as she looked to where Mrs. Graham and Reverend Wakefield had paused their pacing. “Where’s Fergus?”

“We’ve called to the mothers to see what’s delayed them,” Mrs. Graham explained. “They’re all still gone from what we can tell but several of them and their husbands have gone searching their usual routes. There’s naught we can do right now but wait for word to get back.”

“They’re missing? ALL of them? They should’ve been back an hour ago, at least. Do you know who they were supposed to be with?” Claire set Brianna back down in front of her pile of blocks.

“It was Roger and Fergus and four others from what the lads said,” Reverend Wakefield answered. “Those that didna join them thought they were headed out Bught Park way so tha’s where they’re searchin’ first.”

Claire was shaking her head as fear and worry began to ride the surge of adrenaline through her bloodstream. “I should have done more to rein him in,” she muttered. “Giving him some freedom is one thing but they were beginning to push it with how far they were riding.”

“Ye’re no the only one feelin’ this way now,” Mrs. Graham agreed. “And it’s safe to say that they’ll none of them be allowed far for a long while once this is all over.”

The telephone rang and Reverend Wakefield’s side of the ensuing conversation was limited to short, clipped answers that betrayed his own apprehension. “Oh… I see… Yes, thank you.”

“Well?” Mrs. Graham asked, looking like she was ready to shake him if he paused any longer.

“We need to head to the Morans’ house. Robbie Moran found the lads ridin’ back home and gave them a scolding fit to put the fear of God in them… but he says that Roger and Fergus are’na wi’ them.” Reverend Wakefield had already reached for his jacket and shrugged into it while Claire swept Brianna from the floor and made for the door, Mrs. Graham a step behind.

Chapter Text

They headed straight over to the Moran household where they found a crowded scene. The other boys’ parents were all torn between wanting to take their sons home and wanting answers. Luckily, all were willing to wait for Reverend Wakefield and the authority he carried with him to arrive (to say nothing of the guilt they would all feel leaving with their boys when his was one of the two missing).

“We’ve still a few men out searching for Roger and the French lad,” Robbie Moran explained as he ushered the reverend, Claire, and Mrs. Graham into the cramped house. “We’re hopin’ the other lads’ll tell what they know and we can do a more thorough job of it, but they’re… they dinna make any sense.”

“What have they said?” Reverend Wakefield asked, his gentle tone belying his concern.

“They say they dinna ken where they’ve gone, that they… that the lads just… disappeared. But they must have seen somethin’ happen—some direction they were headed or whatnot,” Moran insisted.

“Did they say where they were?” Claire piped up. “Where the lot of them had been riding, I mean.”

“They’d gone farther than they were s’pposed to,” one boy’s mother volunteered from a corner. “And they ken it weel. They dinna want to say and risk gettin’ in deeper trouble.”

“Can I talk to the boys?” Claire asked.

“They’ll no listen to you any more’n they’d listen to the rest of us,” the other woman said with defensive skepticism.

“Well it can hardly hurt for me to try. My son is missing,” Claire reminded her as she adjusted Brianna on her hip. “And I’m going to try whatever is open to me, even if you think it’s useless.”

“Have ye tried questioning them separately?” Mrs. Graham asked. “There’s things they may’na be comfortable sayin’ in front of the others—or in front of the lot of ye—that they’d maybe confess to the reverend one on one.”

A short time later, Claire and Reverend Wakefield had the kitchen to themselves while the boys were brought to them one at a time for inquiries. Mrs. Graham joined the other parents with Brianna asleep in her arms.

A plate of biscuits sat on the table and as each boy came in, Claire would pour him a glass of milk to have with the treat. Anything to put the children at ease and encourage them to cooperate. For the most part, it failed. They’d already closed ranks, perhaps believing they were protecting themselves.

But one of the younger boys in the group began crying when Reverend Wakefield asked where they’d gone when they left on their bicycles.

“We need to know where to be searchin’,” he told the lad, a curly haired and freckled boy called Grant. “Cannae be findin’ them if we dinna ken where to look.”

“Mattie said there was witches or druids about and did we want to spy on ‘em,” Grant responded. “I didna believe ‘im but Roger…” Grant looked up guiltily at the reverend.

“Roger believed it?” Claire pressed, drawing Grant’s attention her way.

The boy nodded. “He said he kent where to find ‘em and rode off. Fergus stayed behind wi’ me cause he’s slower too but when we got closer, he said somethin’ in French I didna understand and went faster.”

“Closer to where?” Claire continued, her blood surging through her veins.

“Craig na Dun,” Grant whispered.

Roger had gotten so far ahead, Fergus couldn’t see him amongst the others racing down the road. It was much farther than any of them had been granted permission for and it would take them so long to get back, they’d all be in trouble.

But that wasn’t why Fergus felt his intenstines twisting into knots.

Craig na Dun. They were getting dangerously close to Craig na Dun. Fergus was now fairly confident that was where Roger was leading them all.

What could he say to get them all to turn away from this plan? The others were racing now, their original desire to spy and catch a gathering of druids unawares had faded in importance as their adolescent need to assert superiority swelled with each kilometer that passed under the tires of their bicycles. First to touch one of the stones was the winner.

It was too far for their legs to handle. Most of the group slowed as they got further from home and conversation returned. Roger was in that group and Fergus was close enough to hear what he told his friends as he caught his breath, coasting more than pedaling.

“They arena there often,” he said. “But at Samhain and Beltane, they have ceremonies and rituals must be performed. They dinna do it till nightfall though, so we’ll no see them unless we stay.”

“My mam would kill me did I stay so far from home wi’ it dark.”

“Samhain then. If we plan now to come and wait at Samhain, we’ve time enough figure how to put our mams off.”

“How much farther? I feel my feet are ‘bout to fall off.”

“Ye can see the hill there and the stones atop. Look! Davy’s reached the bottom!”

With a fresh burst of speed, they raced off once more, Fergus still too far behind.

He caught up when he reached the bottom of the hill and let his bicycle fall to the grass.

Roger had slowed as he climbed toward the summit, shaking his head and blinking. Fergus’ head was pounding and his ears ringing with the buzzing.

At least half their group had already reached the summit and touched the stones, confirming to the world and their friends their capacity for mischief and adventure.

Fergus paused.

The others… nothing happened to them. They touched the stones and nothing happened to them.

He resumed climbing, slower now, cautious. The buzzing and pressure through his body continued, but he couldn’t see that the others were affected.

Roger had reached the top, the other boys nudging him along toward one of the stones.

Laughing, Roger reached out his hand, pressed it flat to the face of the stone…

And was gone.

Fergus lurched forward as the other boys all stumbled back.

“Roger!” Fergus called, though he knew his friend was far from being able to hear him.

“Where’s he gone?” one of the younger boys cried. “Wha’s happened to him?”

“Someone go,” Fergus instructed, looking around the group for someone— anyone —who wasn’t so deeply in shock as to be useless.

The same younger boy got caught in his gaze, his eyes pleading for answers and reassurance.

“Go back home and tell my maman what has happened. She will know what to do. Tell her I have gone to find Roger and will see he is safe until she comes for us.”

The younger boy blinked, which Fergus was willing to take as a sign of understanding.

“Be swift,” Fergus commanded, then whirled to the stones, took a deep breath and reached forward with a deliberation (and reluctance) he hadn’t had the last time he’d visited Craig na Dun.

“I dinna ken where they are but he said ye’d know what to do,” Grant finished. “Where’d they go?”

Claire looked to Reverend Wakefield who was pale and looked quietly horrified by what the boy had told them—certainly reluctant to believe but not quite willing to dismiss the boy’s story given how strongly and seriously he’d told it.

“I think I know what to do, yes,” Claire said quietly, bowing her head when she felt Reverend Wakefield turn to look her way.

Chapter Text

Claire left the Morans’ house with Reverend Wakefield and Mrs. Graham a short time later, assuring the other parents that they were confident of where Fergus and Roger could be found and that they no longer needed the others’ assistance.

“Too much fuss willna help the situation now,” Mrs. Graham told Mrs. Moran with gentle humor. “The lads have had a fright and none o’ ‘em are like to make these same mistakes a second time.”

“Ye’ll tell us how they are when they’re home safe, aye?” Mrs. Moran requested.

Mrs. Graham smiled and nodded as she turned away, but made no promises aloud.

The three adults piled into Reverend Wakefield’s car, Claire holding Brianna in her lap in the back seat.

“I ken we’ve no spoken much about how ye came to find yerself in Inverness wi’ yer lad Fergus after ye’d disappeared years before,” Reverend Wakefield said as he sat behind the wheel. He’d turned the car on but hadn’t made a move to pull away. “But I take it there’s somethin’ to do wi’ Craig na Dun and the stones there. I take it ye have an idea of what happened to make the lads disappear when they touched the stones. And I take it, this idea is goin’ to involve the old fairy stories you like to tell,” he turned to focus his attention on Mrs. Graham in the front seat beside him.

“They’ve traveled through time, yes,” Claire said, frankly. “When I disappeared right after the war, it was accidental. I ended up in 1743. I married there and was happy with him. When the Rising happened he sent me back to the stones with the hope I could get through to this time again. Fergus… he somehow managed to follow me. I don’t know what it is that allows some people to use the stones that way while others can’t… but it would seem Roger is one of the people who can.”

“And if what ye say is true… what do we do?” he asked, his hands sitting uncomfortably on the wheel.

“Drive to Craig na Dun,” Claire told him. “You and I can wait there to see if they come back.”

“Come back,” he repeated, putting the car into gear and backing out of the drive. “Ye think they’ll come back.”

“If Fergus succeeds in finding Roger—which he well might—then he’ll bring him back through. With luck, they’ll come through soon but… I don’t know completely how it works and if they’ll be able to come right back to now.”

“So how long do ye plan to wait? And what do ye plan to do if they dinna return?”

“That… will depend on how long it takes Mrs. Graham to gather what I would need.”

“Ye mean to follow ‘em if they dinna return?” Mrs. Graham asked, doubtful.

“I won’t leave Bree behind so you’ll need to bring me some things for her as well. And if they don’t return on their own, yes, I will go through to find them. I… I don’t know that I will be able to bring them back either—I don’t know if there’s a limit to how many times it will work… I do know it gets worse each time.”

“Worse? What d’ye mean—what was it like to… do whatever it is that happens?” Reverend Wakefield’s eyes were fixed on the road, his stature rigid with concentration and fear.

“Perhaps it’s best if ye dinna ask that,” Mrs. Graham suggested, reaching to lay a comforting hand on the reverend’s shoulder.

“If there’s a need, I will find Roger and I’ll make sure he’s not alone,” Claire promised.

They let that vow settle into a tense silence as Reverend Wakefield pushed the car faster in the direction of Craig na Dun.

The sun was setting as they reached the hill and left the car with its doors wide open to climb and search for Fergus and Roger.

But the space was empty.

“Mrs. Graham,” Claire turned to the older woman. “You can drive the reverend’s car, correct? I’ll need some supplies. Clothes—simple and durable and warm, for me and Brianna and the two boys as well, just to be safe. Some food in a pack. A knife, some matches… anything else you can think of that might prove useful but inconspicuous. Oh, money—NO, jewelry, things I can trade and barter with. There’s a jewelry box in my bedroom. Just put all its contents into some kind of bag.”

“What can I do to help?” the reverend asked quietly, the disappointment of not finding Roger waiting for them leaving him lethargic.

“You can keep us company while we wait,” Claire requested, offering Brianna for him to hold.

The toddler was getting sleepy and clingy, frowning and rubbing her ears, looking around as if looking for something. In Reverend Wakefield’s arms, she rested her cheek against his shoulder and sighed deeply. With Brianna in his arms, the Reverend too seemed to calm. He rocked her gently while Claire looked around the circle of stones and tried to keep her own breathing steady.

The buzzing was reverberating through her skull, it was racing alongside her blood as it coursed through her veins, she could feel the weight of it in her limbs, pulling on her. The last time she had stood in that circle of stones had been the day her world crumbled, the day she’s parted from Jamie forever. Her consolations had been the child in her womb, Fergus, and the knowledge that she would never have to go back—would never have to endure that severing and reconstruction of self again.

Except now it was waiting for her once more, taunting her with the son who’d helped her keep Jamie’s memory alive for the last two years. She could make herself do it for him. She didn’t want to put Brianna through it, but there was no way in hell she would leave her daughter behind— she refused to sacrifice one child for the sake of the other in the face of all that she’d already lost.

She prayed before the stones. Not on her knees—the buzzing wouldn’t allow her enough peace of mind to stay still. She paced and she prayed that Fergus and Roger would reappear before Mrs. Graham returned. She prayed that they would laugh and embrace and cry with relief and then walk along the road until Mrs. Graham found them and piled them into the reverend’s car for an awkwardly tight ride back to the manse.

Claire waited and watched as full dark fell.

Fergus groaned as he pushed himself up and wiped dirt and grass from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Roger,” he said quietly, reminding himself what he was doing. “Roger!” he called louder, looking around the hill. The stones stood and watched unaffected as he staggered past with his hands drawn tight to his body. In the moment with the need to follow and fetch Roger so glaring, Fergus had forgotten what it was like to touch those stones and wake up in another century. There had been a brief moment where he’d remembered the events leading up to the first time—seeing Mother Claire on the hill with an English soldier chasing her, the weight of the responsibility he felt to protect her for Milord. Another wave of nausea brought him to his knees. He wasn’t looking forward to the return trip.

But first he needed to find Roger.

He’d expected his friend to be lying on the ground nearby—the other boy had only touched the stone and vanished moments before he’d done the same. Mother Claire had been there as soon as he’d opened his eyes in his new time. There hadn’t been much difference between her going and his that time either.

But Roger was nowhere to be seen.

Fergus swallowed his panic and started searching in a wider arc as he moved down the hill toward where the road had been. He wished he had his bicycle now. It would have been so much quicker to look for Roger and get back if he had his bicycle.

He spotted a small cabin a short ways off. If Roger had arrived minutes or even hours ahead of him, the boy would likely have headed for that cabin—he would have gone for anyone or anything where he might find help.

Fergus set himself a steady pace and headed for the cabin.

Chapter Text

Claire went cold when the lights from Reverend Wakefield’s car shone through the trees and reflected off the stones. Brianna had managed to fall asleep in the Reverend’s arms while he sat on a fallen log, staring at the dark horizon. He didn’t even stir as Mrs. Graham slowed the car to bring it off the paved road and onto the dirt path the climbed partway up the hill.

There was still no sign of Fergus or Roger.

“Right,” she said, exiting the car and retrieving a sack from the passenger seat. She flipped a torch on and shone it on the path to help her keep her feet. “I take it from the silence that the lads are’na returned?”

“No,” Claire replied flatly, crossing to meet Mrs. Graham and take the sack from her.

“I found what ye asked after and let a few friends know what was happening.” At Claire’s wary expression, Mrs. Graham smiled soothingly. “They’re the others who come one feast days to perform the ceremonies. Ye’re the first traveler as we’ve had through in some time, but ye’re no the first the circle has seen, and I dinna think ye’ll be the last.”

Reverend Wakefield stood brought Brianna over to her mother. “How long d’ye think it will take?”

Claire held the sack open and checked over its contents while Mrs. Graham held the light. A few sets of clothes for her, Brianna, and the boys, all of them worn and shapeless—suitable enough to help them pass in whatever year they found themselves, at least long enough to find an appropriate substitute. There were provisions for at least two days, even split four ways. The knife was wrapped and the matches as well. Mrs. Graham had found Claire’s small emergency medical kit—thankfully, Claire kept hers in a durable wooden box with a latch and handle—and decided to include it. A drawstring purse bulged like it held the full contents of Claire’s jewelry box.

“How long should we wait for ye?” Reverend Wakefield asked, more insistently, his rising voice causing Brianna to stir.

Claire reached and took Brianna from him, slinging the sack awkwardly over her shoulder. Brianna settled down again and Claire took a deep breath, steadying her nerves for what she was about to do.

“We’ll stay until dawn,” Mrs. Graham decided, resting a hand on Reverend Wakefield’s shoulder. “I’ll set up a rotation with the others to come and check regularly for ye. It might take her a while to find them, after all. Ye needna worry for Roger. He’ll be safe wi’ Claire when she finds him. Whatever happens, he’ll no be on his own.”

The look Mrs. Graham gave Claire then told her the older woman believed this would be a final goodbye. Perhaps for that reason, they both refused to say it.

Instead, Claire turned to the stones and swallowed as she shifted Brianna to a more comfortable and secure position in her arms. She would find a way to make do without the pack if need be, but she would not let go of her daughter.

“Tell him I ken he didna mean to cause a fuss,” Reverend Wakefield called to Claire, just as she stood before the stone. “It doesna matter to me how long… Tell him I love him and I’ll be waitin’ and prayin’ to see him again. He’ll no be in trouble, however long it takes.”

Thinking of Roger—of how scared he must be, and confused—Claire reached out a hand and pressed it to the face of the stone.

Brianna was crying and wriggling on top of Claire when she came to, her ears ringing and her back sore. She’d fallen backwards on the pack from Mrs. Graham.

But Brianna was crying and wriggling which meant that Brianna had made it through with her so, none of the aches and pains or nausea mattered. She clutched Brianna to her chest and pushed herself to a sitting position.

If Roger and Fergus were anywhere nearby, they would surely hear Brianna’s crying and come to investigate.

But she didn’t know where—or rather, when —she was, so perhaps calming the siren in her arms would be better than just letting her scream.

Claire struggled to her feet, shushing Brianna quietly as she tried to rub her back. Once they were upright and Claire had moved out of the circle of stones and trees, Brianna began to quiet, grumbling her displeasure and discomfort into Claire’s neck while one hand held tight to her mother’s curls and she gnawed on the first two fingers of the other hand.

It was just beginning to grow light—dawn must be less than an hour off. She didn’t know what time it had been when Mrs. Graham returned, but it couldn’t have been midnight… or maybe it had been…?

She fought to keep her footing as she made her way down the hill and the sight stopped her in her tracks.

A road. Not the dusty or trodden path through the grass that horses or people on foot left, overgrown from infrequent use. But a paved road.

Claire looked back and forth. No cars, no sign of Mrs. Graham or Reverend Wakefield. They would have stayed at least this long to be sure she wasn’t coming back… and if she hadn’t gone anywhere at all, they’d have been right there when she woke. So she had traveled…

Her steps were slow and wary as she looked back and forth along the road again. Which way to go to search for the boys?

Fergus would have headed back through the stones if he’d found Roger anywhere nearby. And Roger would likely have wanted to head somewhere familiar… which meant back to Inverness… But Fergus would have known that and found him sooner if he’d actually headed that direction, which meant Roger probably got turned around in his fear and confusion…

Claire turned down the road continuing to head away from Inverness.

It was apparently too early for there to be many—or any —cars about. With the weight of Brianna and the pack, it was slow going. How far could the boys have gotten before they grew too tired and stopped somewhere to rest? Where would they have gone to see such rest? They wouldn’t have stayed too close to the road—Fergus would have made sure they were safely hidden… if Fergus had reached Roger. Fergus wouldn’t stop until he had found Roger and Roger… fear could go either way in such a situation. Finding himself alone, he might have wandered a short way before giving up… or it might be carrying him further and further in the wrong direction.

Or maybe she was headed in the wrong direction.

She slowed further and began scanning the horizon in all directions looking for a place where frightened children might hide or seek comfort.

Brianna snuffled against her. “Mama, down,” Brianna murmured.

Claire moved to put her down but Brianna continued clinging to her. So Claire found a spot where they could sit down together. She pulled the pack around and found a bit of cheese for Brianna to chew on. The food appeared to lift her spirits.

“Mama, home?” Brianna asked.

“I know, love,” Claire said apologetically. “I want to go home too. But we need to find Fergus and Roger first. We can’t go home or anywhere else until we find them.”

“Gus go?” she responded, confused. Brianna looked around and pressed her palm to her forehead, squinting though there was no sunlight to shade her eyes from and the hand wouldn’t have blocked any of the sun’s rays in any case.

“Fergus is looking for Roger,” Claire explained, though she knew Brianna probably didn’t understand. Speaking it aloud was helping to reassure them both, however, so she continued. “And we’re looking for Fergus. If we find Fergus, we find Roger.”

“Find Roger, Gus,” Brianna summarized with a nod before taking another bite of her cheese. “Him cheese?” she asked, holding out the two bites she had squished together in her fist.

“When we find them, you can ask if they want cheese.”

“Go find,” Brianna said, gobbling the last of the cheese and then standing to toddle down the road.

Claire scrambled to catch her but a low hum stopped both of them and sent Brianna crying back to Claire, her hands over her ears.

Claire pulled Brianna further off the side of the road and into some brush. She knew that sound and her muscle memory had taken over.

When you heard planes overhead, you took cover and prayed they didn’t drop anything. She still knew how to tell the number from the drone, how to distinguish where one plane’s noise bumped against another and crossed it. Looking to the pink sky, she spotted them against the clouds and pointed them out to Brianna who took her fingers out of her mouth and stopped crying long enough to point and gape.

There were four, flying in tight formation. She couldn’t distinguish much beyond their coloring and size. She was fairly certain they weren’t German. They reminded her of the planes she saw the Allied troops flying in France, bringing supplies for the hospitals before their holds were refilled with more dangerous cargo to deliver across enemy lines.

They hadn’t gone back far enough. It must only be a few years into the past, the war still being fought and the countryside quiet behind their blackout curtains until the new day made it safe—saf er —to come out.

Tears of frustration and despair pricked at Claire’s eyes. The thought of going back to the hill without either boy, of trying to pass through the stones not one but two more times…

She rested her head against Brianna’s. How could she put Brianna through that again—take that risk a second time with her?

The planes passed and the hum faded.

When it had been quiet for a few minutes, Claire began to loosen her hold on Brianna so they could fight their way free of the bushes that had concealed them.

“Mrs. Claire?” a frightened voice asked with disbelief.

“Find Roger,” Brianna declared, pointing to the dust-covered boy.

“Roger?!” Claire cried, rushing forward and leaving Brianna to toddle after her as she knelt beside him to conduct a cursory examination. His clothes were torn in a few places and covered with dirt and stains from the plants. It was clear he’d cried at some point, the tears leaving his cheeks streaked and his eyes a little red and puffy.

“Where’s my da?” Roger asked, his voice thick and his breathing threatening to catch in his throat at the slightest provocation.

“He told me to tell you that you’re not in any trouble,” Claire remembered, the message steadying her. “He said he loves you, and it doesn’t matter how long it takes for you to get home, he just wants you safe.”

“Did ye no bring a car?” Roger whimpered. “I wanna go home.”

Claire pulled him to her and rubbed his back as she’d done with Brianna earlier. The toddler had caught up to them and tucked herself into Claire’s side, refusing to be left out of the comforting embrace.

“Where’s Fergus?” Claire asked, pulling back and brushing Roger’s hair straight with her fingers. “He didn’t leave you behind while he went for help, did he?”

“I’ve no seen Fergus,” Roger said.

Chapter Text

The cabin was empty and Fergus found no sign of Roger anywhere near it. Too tired to contemplate anything beyond sleep, Fergus curled up on the floor against the wall in the space between the door and the window. It would be difficult for anyone to spot him but he was near the open spaces enough to overhear passersby. 

He slept soundly. No one passed close enough to wake him.

Fergus decided he must have been wrong about Roger and the direction he’d headed, so Fergus set out in the direction of Inverness. He’d need to be careful along the way, try his best to blend in and go unobserved when other people were around—at least until he could get a measure on them and figure out how best they might be played. 

His stomach growled as he walked and he found it harder to ignore than it once had been. Not since the war had he gone hungry and he hadn’t been alone in his suffering then. Before that, it had been over a year of regular meals at Lallybroch and in Paris after Milord had found him. 

Fergus’ foraging skills were out of practice but there were a few things about edible herbs and berries that he still remembered. He didn’t have time to set snares for anything with meat on its bones. He needed to catch up to Roger before he was found by someone who would think him mad if he shared his tale. It wasn’t the sort of thing that inspired pity and a gentle hand the way it likely would have in the 20th century; Roger was likely to be turned away or worse, chased off.

The further Fergus got from Craig na Dun, the more nervous he became. There were no signs of Roger along the road to Inverness either, and if Roger had gone that way, Fergus should have overtaken him at some point. Roger simply wasn’t skilled enough to make it on his own in such a time and place. 

Fergus slowed and eventually stopped and sat, resting against a tree. He needed to think and not act rashly. 

He’d told the other boys to go for Mother Claire. She and the other boys’ parents would know what happened by now. He was confident she would at least try to find them… But it was becoming clearer and clearer to Fergus that he and Roger must have passed through the stones to different times. Was it even possible for her to travel through the stones again? She’d been back and forth once. Now, so had he. What if that was all anyone was allowed? The stories he remembered hearing at Lallybroch told of faeries stealing folks away and returning them, but he couldn’t think of any that involved the lost folk going back through a third time. And Mother Claire had Brianna to think about. Fergus would never forgive himself if his sister found herself alone because their mother had gotten lost looking for him. 

He sighed and shook his head. He’d been a fool. He should have waited longer to see if Roger found his way back. Scared as he might’ve been, it was a logical thing to do—touch the stones again and go back the way you came. Roger had probably reappeared not five minutes after his own disappearance. He was worrying Mother Claire and it was down to his own impatience and recklessness. He hoped she forgave him and that she stayed put with Brianna. 

But she would still worry. 

He would have to do something to make sure she knew he had made it back safely. But he wasn’t safe. Not yet. There was only one place he could think of where he stood a chance of making a place for himself and leaving something behind for Mother Claire to find. 

Lallybroch. 

Claire could only make slow progress carrying Brianna and with Roger trailing alongside her. They’d turned around and headed back down the road headed for Inverness. Fergus would have found Roger before she did if he’d headed the same direction as Roger in the first place. She hoped Fergus would realize his mistake and turn around again, meeting them halfway and saving them all some time. 

“Find F’gus?” Brianna asked, her voice weary. She had gone back and forth between demanding to be let to walk on her own and requesting her mother carry her. Now she seemed tired enough she might nap right there in Claire’s arms, which would leave her carrying Brianna’s dead weight. 

“Yes, darling. We’re going to find Fergus and then we’re all going to go home,” Claire reiterated. There was more certainty in her voice than in herself. True, Fergus would have had a significant head start on them and he would make far better time on his own than the three of them together… No, she refused to give up hope. She refused to consider the alternatives… yet. 

“Can we rest a bit, Mrs. Claire?” Roger piped up. “I’m hungry and my legs are tired and dinna want to listen which way I tell ‘em to go.”

Claire tried not to sigh too loudly, turning and smiling at Roger as she nodded and ushered him to the side of the road. Brianna ate a bit of cheese before curling up in Claire’s lap and dropping off to sleep. 

“Mrs. Claire? What was it happened when I touched the stones? Where’d ever’one else go?” Roger asked, sheepily. 

“I’m afraid you’re the one who went somewhere, Roger. It wasn’t your fault, though. It’s just something that some of us have the ability to do. Like some people can sing well enough to be on the radio shows and others can play sport and go to the Olympics. We have the special ability… to touch a certain stone and… pass through time.”

“Oh…” Roger nodded, nibbling at his snack and staring down the empty road toward town. “And… d’ye ken where it is we’ve passed to? Did we go backward or might we have gone forward?”

“I don’t think we’ve gone forward,” Claire said, glancing around. “The planes earlier… I think we’ve gone back to sometime during the war. But I don’t know what part of the war or even if it’s the last war – though I do think the pavement is more likely to put us in the last ten years than back to the days of my own infancy.” 

“And ye’ve been through the stones before?”

“Twice,” Claire told him offering a weak smile. “I lived three years in the past—much further past than this.”

“It took ye three years to find yer way back?” Fear tinged Roger’s voice and put a shine in his eyes. 

“No. I could’ve come back sooner. I didn’t want to come back at all,” she confessed. 

“Why would ye no want to go home again?” His confusion seemed to break the fear and rising panic, distracting Roger and calming him. 

“The home I found in the past—the people who were part of it…” she tried to speak but words failed her as Brianna sighed in her sleep and curled further into her. “I found more in the past than I ever expected, and it meant more to me than the life I’d left behind. I only went back again… because so much of that was lost and it was safer in the future. I was able to bring the most important parts with me… not all of them… but most.”

“And Fergus? Did he go wi’ ye both times?”

“Fergus is from the past. We neither of us knew he could use the stones until he’d done it.”

“D’ye think we’ll find him… or d’ye think he went back where he was from the way you did yer second time touchin’ the stone?”

Claire opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t come up with the right words.

“Find Gus?” Brianna asked, jerking from her nap and rubbing her eyes. 

“Not yet, darling,” Claire soothed her. “Not yet.”

Chapter Text

Fergus vacillated with each step he took toward Lallybroch. Should he just go back to the stones and try to get back to Mother Claire and Brianna? Would he even be able to get back if he tried? 

What would he tell Jenny and Ian when he appeared on their doorstep? Would they even allow him to stay without Milord or Mother Claire there? He would be just another mouth to feed and he knew from Mother Claire and some reading just how bad things got in the Highlands after the Rising failed. But he had two hands and his time in that prosperous future had given him strength and health and a bit more learning than he’d had before. He could make an argument that he would earn his keep. 

But what would he tell them of Mother Claire? They were sure to ask. Should he tell them about Brianna? How would he explain why they hadn’t heard from them in the last two years? 

He doubled back twice but his fear of what might happen if he touched the stones for a third time turned him right back around again. 

When he crested a hill and spotted Lallybroch nestled quietly in the valley below, his legs went out from under him and he spent at least an hour just staring at it, telling himself he would figure it out, whatever else happened. He would make Mother Claire and Milord proud. 

The women of the house were in the yard managing the laundry with several children playing around them. Fergus paused outside the gate, watching. He knew how quickly the little ones could grow, having watched how fast Brianna went from sleeping most of the day to crawling and finally walking and talking, following him around and toddling to keep up with him. Maggie was tall enough to help her mother stir the steaming kettle of clothes while Kitty wandered around waving soiled hosiery above her head. 

A cry came from a basket on the ground and Fergus watched as Jenny bent to pick up and soothe a baby who couldn’t be older than a month or two. 

Kitty suddenly stopped her dancing and scurried to her mother’s side, tugging Jenny’s skirts and pointing to where Fergus was concealed among the shadows. He’d been spotted. 

Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he stepped into the light and self-consciously walked toward the group of women. 

Jenny muttered something in gaidhlig under her breath and set the baby back in its basket with shaking hands. Then she shooed Kitty away from her skirts and strode forward to stand before Fergus as he came to a halt. 

“Mistress Murray,” he croaked, offering her a small bow. “You may not remem—”

“Fergus,” she breathed, shock causing her voice to crack. She lunged and pulled him to her breast, pinning his arms to his sides as she crushed him in her embrace. 

“Mistress,” he murmured, surprised himself by the greeting. He hadn’t expected—

Then she released him and held him away from her at arm’s reach, her eyes taking in the new inches, the cropped if dusty hair, the strange clothes and shoes. Her hands went to her hips as she pulled herself up and began to scold. “Where in heaven’s name have ye been, lad? Jamie was beside himself when he came round and heard ye’d no shown up. We thought ye were deid!” 

That was more along the lines of the reaction he’d expected. 

“For him to lose you on top of losin’ Claire,” Jenny continued to lecture, but Fergus jolted at the mention of Claire, part of what Jenny said clicking into place. 

“Milord? Milord is alive?” he sputtered. 

“Aye, lad. And no thanks to you for it. He was in a bad way when he arrived here after the fightin’ was through and it was all I could do to keep him from slippin’ away on me and joinin’ the lot of ye we believed were gone and buried.”

“Where is Milord? I must have words with him. There is much he should know,” Fergus babbled excitedly. Just as the stones had brought him to Mother Claire so she wouldn’t be alone while she carried Brianna, they must have brought him back so he might tell Milord about the family that had survived and thrived despite his greatest fears. 

“I’ll send word to wee Jamie in the field to steal away and tell my brother he’s needed at the house as soon as he feels it’s safe. It’ll no be till dark at least so best get ye in the house, washed up, fed and rested,” Jenny insisted. “I s’pose it’ll be best to wait and make ye tell yer tale once rather’n tire ye wi’ tellin’ it to ever’one ye see.”

Fergus might have tried arguing but his stomach grumbled at Jenny’s mention of food, so she refused to be put off her plan. 

He let them lead him inside and ate the food Jenny set in front of him, pushing from his mind all he’d learned of the deprivation that struck after the Rising. A stream of people came through to see him and welcome him back while he ate—some he recognized, but there were several new faces as well. 

Jenny rattled on telling him of what had passed at Lallybroch since he had ridden away to join the Bonnie Prince’s army. The potato harvest had yielded more and more each year, which was a relief since they had lost more and more of their other crops, both to poor conditions and army raids. The men Jamie had sent home ahead of Culloden had arrived safely but many drifted in and out of hiding whenever the soldiers passed through. More of the tenants had been forced to abandon their crofts and some had fled to Edinburgh or Glasgow in the hopes of finding work. 

“And… Milord? How did he make his way home? From how he spoke when I saw him last… he did not mean to leave the battlefield,” Fergus inquired, cautiously. 

“He didna leave of his own power,” Jenny said, sitting at the table to nurse the babe from the basket along with his twin sister. “He took a nasty wound across his leg and near bled out but somehow he was pulled free alive, packed in a wagon, and sent here. Fever nearly killed him after that but we pulled him through it. He’s… he’s no been the same… no wi’out Claire. Keeps hidden and away from the house most of the time. He’s a price on his head again. Hunts and traps a bit, brings it back to share. Can go weeks wi’out seein’ him in summer. Stays in the priest hole more in the winter—my parents would never forgive me did I let him freeze to death in a cave.”

Fergus pushed his empty plate aside, watching as Jenny rearranged the baby in her arms, wiping his face clean. The baby yawned, emitting a squeak. A moment later, Fergus lost the fight against a yawn of his own. 

“I’ll show ye to a bed. Ye’d best get what rest ye can ‘fore nightfall. Jamie’ll have plenty of questions for ye to answer, and what he doesna ask, ye can be sure I will.”

It was twilight and Claire was struggling to carry a slumbering Brianna and keep an exhausted Roger moving forward when a car came driving along the road. It’s headlights were dim and it took Claire a moment to realize what it was, causing her to jump out of the way at the last minute, startling Brianna awake and jerking Roger from his daze. Luckily, the car was moving at a slower pace than most vehicles traveling that road did (perhaps because of the limited light coming from its covered headlights). 

It slowed further when it noticed their movement, pulling up along the side of the road where Claire was suddenly struggling to calm Brianna. 

“Do ye need a lift to town?” the driver asked. “Ye ought not be walkin’ the road this time of day and ye ought to be indoors after nightfall wi’ the blackout restrictions.”

Roger looked up at Claire. 

“Yes, thank you. Is there an inn that might have a room for us tonight? Our vehicle broke down a ways back and we’ve been walking for a while,” Claire lied.

“Aye. I ken a place’ll take ye. Can put in a call to have someone out to tend yer car but it’ll no be done till it’s light again,” the man told her, reaching across to unlock the passenger door. 

“Oh, I can make the necessary calls,” Claire told him, ushering Roger into the car. “Thank you though. We just need a place to sleep and we’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

“As ye say ma’am.”

Within an hour, Brianna was bathed and in bed. Roger, too, had had a quick wash and was resting while Claire inventoried her supplies. There would be time in the morning to restock a few things.

“Where’ll we go to find Fergus?” Roger asked, watching Claire. 

She began repacking her bag. “We’re going back to Craig na Dun.”

Roger took an unsteady breath before continuing, “And what will we do when we get there?”

“It’s apparent Fergus didn’t follow you to this time… so we must follow him wherever he landed.”

“I’m comin’ with ye? Ye’re no takin’ me back home?” 

Claire looked up and her heart squeezed tightly at the fear and disappointment in Roger’s voice. She left her things half packed, circling the bed to kneel beside the low settee where Roger lay. 

“I’m so sorry, Roger… I can’t take you back. I don’t know that I can make more than one trip more through the stones. I can’t explain why or how… but I think if I try too many times—”

Roger blinked and nodded. “I ken,” he told her. 

“I promised your father I wouldn’t leave you alone,” she said. “And I can’t leave Fergus alone wherever he is. So you’ll have to come with me and we’ll have to figure out our way whenever that may be. Is that alright with you?”

Roger sniffed but nodded again then closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. 

She brushed some hair away from his face before pushing back to her feet and going back to the bed where Brianna slept and their supplies were half packed. She knew Roger was trying to keep the noise down while he wept and her heart went out to him. 

The poor boy had lost both his parents in the war and now he was losing the only family he had left. It wasn’t fair. But she couldn’t think of any other way forward. Sending him alone and hoping he ended up in the right place was out of the question. Each time she’d passed through the stones, the voices and screams she heard in that between place had gotten louder, more forlorn, like they were calling her to join them. She wouldn’t leave Roger to navigate that space between on his own—she would spend the rest of her days haunted by the fear his voice had gone to join the others. 

So she would bring him with her and Brianna. And there was only one place she could think of where Fergus might have ended up. 

She just hoped that the next time she touched the stone and heard those voices, Fergus’ voice wouldn’t be one of the ones she heard trapped and calling her.

Chapter Text

Fergus woke slowly, the room still dark. It took a moment for him to remember where he was—when he was—and why. 

There was movement downstairs and voices, though they were kept low.

Fergus threw back the blankets and slipped out of the room, flying silently down the old, familiar stairs, and to the kitchen at the back of the house. He nearly collided with young Jamie. 

“Mam sent me to fetch ye,” the younger boy said. “Uncle Jamie’s come.”

“I know,” Fergus told the boy dismissively, his attention riveted to the kitchen doorway and the voices on the other side. 

“What is it ye’re tellin’ me, Janet?” Jamie grumbled, confused. “Ye sent for me to come and now ye’re holdin’ yer tongue and—”

“I told ye, it’s no my tale to tell ye,” Jenny interrupted, her volume rising alongside her frustration. 

Ian intervened before the two Frasers could come to blows. 

“Ye ken we’d no send for ye off schedule and wi’out warning were it only on a whim,” Ian reasoned. 

“Aye, and ye dinna usually dilly dally when ye’ve news for me, good or ill.” 

Fergus was standing in the doorway then, having moved so slowly that Jamie hadn’t registered his presence, busy as he was scolding his sister and Ian. 

Jamie’s clothes were tattered in places and thoroughly filthy. They’d been mended several times over but rough living had worn through the woolen fabric faster than if they could have been more carefully tended. The exposed skin was filthy too, coated with layers of dust, grime, and sweat. Fergus watched Jamie remove a knitted cap from his head, his hair falling in a tangled and uneven mess nearly to his shoulders. He had the beginnings of a beard sprouting from his chin and cheeks. It had probably been a fortnight since he’d had a chance to shave. 

There was a hollowness to Jamie’s bearing that extended beyond his sun-starved frame, an edge to his patience that was sharper than his protruding cheekbones. 

It stunned and saddened Fergus. Had he done this to Milord, by leaving him alone? Of course, he hadn’t known. Everything Mother Claire said and believed was that Milord had died on the battlefield at Culloden… and perhaps part of him had. Fergus certainly didn’t recognize much of the man he’d known in the Jamie Fraser standing before him. 

“Milord?” he squeaked, more nervous than he had been earlier in the day waiting for Jamie’s arrival. 

Jamie froze at the sound, his eyes still narrowed and angry as they focused on Jenny. But Jenny was looking past her brother to Fergus, a calm wave passing over her features. 

Jamie’s head turned slightly, to peek over his shoulder. It took a moment for him to register and then recognize Fergus. 

“Mon dieu,” he gasped, his face going slack and pale with shock. Ian moved quickly as Jamie’s legs wobbled, catching his friend and guiding him to a stool.

Fergus stepped forward, fighting the urge to run to Jamie. “Milord… I must apologize for disobeying your orders…”

Jamie reached out suddenly and grabbed Fergus by the arms, pulling him into his embrace. It surprised Fergus at first but then he sighed with relief and returned the hug.

“I thought ye’d been killed, lad,” Jamie croaked, tears clogging his throat. “I thought I’d sent ye to yer death and that it was little more than chance and yer foresight what saw the deed here safe.”

“No, Milord,” Fergus said, sniffling as he pulled back and dabbed at his wet eyes. “I did not do as you instructed me to do. I gave the deed to another to be messenger and then I followed you and Mother Claire to be of help to you.”

“Ye followed Claire?” Jamie’s voice was faint and cracked, tears leaking from his eyes, wending through the dust on his cheeks and tangling with his scraggly beard. 

“ Oui , I have been with her and—”

“Claire’s alive?” Jenny exclaimed, her hand shooting up to cover her mouth as soon as the words were out. 

Jamie cleared his throat and suggested Jenny and Ian sit. Jenny obliged after sending her son to bed and dismissing Mrs. Crook for the night, leaving just the four of them alone in the warm glow of the kitchen hearth. 

“Ye went wi’ Claire then, Fergus?” Jamie asked. 

Fergus nodded. 

“Go ahead, lad. Tell them where ye’ve been.”

“I have been living with Mother Claire in Inverness… but it is the Inverness of another time,” Fergus said slowly, looking to Jamie for reassurance. “I followed her to the year 1948.” 

“A daughter,” Jenny remarked with joyous disbelief. Jamie was speechless, his face in his hands. 

“ Oui . She is… she is walking and she speaks, now, but only a little. She is like you in her looks but, Mother Claire says she is a little too happy to pick up after me when I am in my mischief.”

Jamie let out a choking sob and Jenny rose, wrapping her arms around him and letting him cry against her shoulder. She gently stroked his head, frowning at the state of his hair out of habit, before shushing him with a tone tried and tested on more than just her five children. 

“Ye managed it, mo bhràthair . Claire and the bairn are safe. Ye got them out of harm’s way and there’s little more ye could have asked given how things were,” she reassured him. 

“Ye might have thought to tell us what ye’d done, sendin’ Claire away like that,” Ian chided. “We would ha’ gladly shared the burden of yer secrets. Ye need’na have suffered alone.”

“It’s no matter now,” Jenny said with the dismissiveness of one who clearly had a lot to say on the subject. “Fergus, I want ye to run and fetch Ian’s shaving kit from our room. Ian, d’ye mind gettin’ clean water? I have some of yer things washed and mended,” she informed Jamie, beginning to bustle about the kitchen, pulling together some food, soap and the shears she used for barbering. “Tomorrow night I’ll have the tub pulled out and a proper bath waitin’ for ye. You too, Fergus. Tonight ye’ll both have to do with a light wash.”

Fergus groaned. He desperately wanted a bath, but one where he could control the water from a tap, warming it back up easily after it had started to cool. 

“I dinna ken how far behind ye Claire’s like to be, but I’m sure it’ll be no more’n a few days,” Jenny said as she examined the state of Jamie’s hair and debated cutting it before a proper washing—most of it would need to go, clean or not. “I’ll no have her walkin’ through here and the pair of ye lookin’ like ye just came in from wrestling the pigs.”

Jamie turned sharply in his seat, his hair pulling out of the loose hold Jenny had it in. 

“No… she wouldna…” Jamie murmured, stubbornly. 

Fergus chimed in. “She would not risk the journey,” he agreed. “She knows that I am capable of making my way on my own and would be fine without her. If she were to find Roger and return him to his father, I do not thinks he would—”

“Aye, lad, she would,” Jenny interrupted. She took a firm grip on Jamie’s head and turned it to face away from her. “And the both of ye ken it well enough, so ye’d best prepare a place for her here and be prepared yerselves. If I were her, I’d have quite a few things to be sayin’ on the matter of yer recklessness and the death wishes ye seem to share. Now go fetch the shavin’ kit like I asked ye.”

None of them spoke much as they did what Jenny instructed. Fergus watched Jamie and wondered about what Mother Claire would do. 

She didn’t know Jamie was alive. Would she risk Brianna to come for Fergus? He hoped she would, even though he knew the selfless thing would be to wish she wouldn’t.

Jamie was visibly in shock and torn as well. Jenny cut his hair short, muttering to herself about how she should have washed it first and they wouldn’t truly know how bad a job she’d done until his bath the next day. Jamie insisted on shaving himself and they all watched nervously as he set the blade to his throat and dragged it up toward his jaw. Slowly, the beard disappeared and when he washed his face he emerged looking more like his old self… but still a bit haunted. 

Jenny tried to send Fergus up to bed while she ushered Jamie toward the priest’s hole but Fergus refused to let Jamie stay in the dark space on his own. 

“There isna room for both of us,” Jamie protested weakly, but the evening’s revelations had worn him down while bolstering Fergus’ stubbornness. 

“I’ll stay in yer room wi’ ye till morning, but then I must hide away for everyone’s sake,” Jamie asserted. “And if I cannae be goin’ back to my cave, it’ll be the hole and ye’ll no object, aye?” 

Fergus agreed to that arrangement and helped Jamie organize the room he’d been given earlier to accommodate a pile of blankets for Jamie’s use. 

“Tell me about them,” Jamie requested quietly as they lay still, too tired to move but too worked up to sleep. “How has Claire managed? And… what’s the wee lassie like? Brianna…”

Fergus turned his head to the side to watch Jamie looking up at the window and the stars winking in the dark. 

“Well… near the first thing Mother Claire did was put me into school.”

Chapter Text

Brianna began fussing and clinging to Claire as they approached Craig na Dun again. Roger grit his teeth and followed Claire up the hill, carrying her pack for her so she could calm Brianna as much as was possible. 

“I know, darling, I know,” Claire shushed, her hand rubbing Brianna’s back. “But you want to find Fergus, don’t you? That’s what I need you to do right now, honey. Think about Fergus and how badly you want to see him. Think of him and hold tight to me.” 

Brianna’s death grip around Claire’s neck cinched tighter and it was enough for Claire to let go of Brianna with one hand.

“Roger, you hold tight to me too, alright?” Claire instructed. “It won’t be pleasant and I know you’re scared, but if you focus on where we’re going—think about Fergus—it’ll make it easier. Don’t focus on what we’re doing, focus on what’s going to happen when we get there. Because we will get through this next bit and when we do, we need to stick together. Right?”

Roger readjusted the pack over his arm and reached up with his hand to grab hold of Claire’s elbow. With his free hand, he held it out toward the stone and waited, watching Claire. 

She did the same. “On three,” she nodded. “One…”

“Two…” Roger murmured.

“Three,” Brianna sobbed into Claire’s neck out of habit. 

Claire and Roger put their hands to the stone.

Brianna was crying and screaming and Roger was trying to calm her. Claire could hear it but she struggled to move. Everything hurt. And this time it wasn’t just the headache of being rattled or the joint pain from feeling like she’d been dropped from several stories. She would swear she felt it in her very organs, as if they’d been ripped out and then shoved back into her body. 

She was able to turn her head before she vomited. 

There were fresh hysterics from Brianna and a pressure on her chest that suggested her daughter had broken loose from Roger and was climbing on top of her. Roger, for his part, came around her other side and looked down into her face, relief evident on his. 

“Mrs. Claire? Are ye alright?” he asked, hopeful. 

No, she wasn’t alright. She knew in that moment she could never survive another trip through the stones. So long as they were where they were supposed to be and found Fergus, she would happily give up the luxuries of her twentieth century life again. Anything to get away from these horrid stones once and for all. 

“How… long… how long have I been…?” 

“I thought ye were deid!” Roger exclaimed now that his fears had proven false. 

“I feel halfway there,” Claire muttered. She was able to move her arms. She brought them over her body till she was able to make out the shape of Brianna thrown across her, a hand sliding up into her daughter’s curls to caress the solid curve of her head and offer reassurance. “It’s alright, Bree,” she soothed. “It’s alright. We’re here now and we’re going to find Fergus. It’s alright…”

“‘Gus here?” Brianna asked, sniffling. She still shook a little with each breath but the wailing and sobbing had subsided. 

Claire braced herself on one elbow and tried to sit up. Roger was behind her in an instant, helping. Brianna rolled over down Claire’s torso so that she was lying on her back across Claire’s thighs, looking up at her mother. Claire bent her head, her curls curtaining around the two of them. 

Brianna smiled up at her, tears still shining in her eyes. 

“We’re gonna be alright,” Claire said again, this time with more confidence. Her daughter was alive and with her. Roger was safe and no longer alone either. She ached for Reverend Wakefield and what he must be feeling, but she’d done what she could in Inverness before they left to return to Craig na Dun. Hopefully it would reach him and give him some measure of comfort in Roger’s continued absence. 

“What do we do now, Mrs. Claire?” Roger asked. He had sat on the grass beside them, pulling the pack into his lap and clutching it like a stuffed toy. 

“If we’re where we ought to be, there’s a cabin down the hill a little ways. We can make our way down there and have a shelter there for the night while we recover. It’ll also give us a place to change,” Claire explained, sliding Brianna off her legs. She was beginning to get real feeling back in them and Brianna’s weight threatened to cut off her circulation. 

“Change?”

“There are clothes in there, or at least, some things we might be able to adapt to blend in better. It’s more for me and Bree than you. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to find you and Fergus or when we might end up, but we can fashion something suitable. After a few days on the road, it probably won’t matter too much. So long as we can keep warm at night, we won’t want too much extra weight.” 

Claire rolled onto her knees and cringed against the sharp paints that shot down her shins. No, she wouldn’t be able to go far, even after resting the night. She wouldn’t be able to move much faster even if she didn’t have the children to keep her moving slow. It would be several days before they could hope to reach Lallybroch, but they would manage. They had to. It was the only place she could think of where Fergus might go hoping to be taken in. She had to hope that Jenny and Ian wouldn’t mind being asked if they could take in three more. 

If it proved too much of a strain… she would think of something. France or perhaps the colonies. Fergus was old enough to be more help than hindrance and Roger’s experiences of the last week appeared to have shaken some of the innocence and mischief from his inclinations—something she quietly mourned on his behalf. 

Claire forced herself to stand and immediately, Brianna was at her leg, pulling on her and reaching, “Up, Mama, up.” 

They made it to the cabin. It was as sparse as Claire remembered it but there were signs of recently disturbed dust. The bench hadn’t been wiped clean before a body had lain there—a body whose size was about the same as Fergus. 

Brianna chattered and sang to herself, standing at the bench and clapping her hands in the dust. She sneezed and then laughed as the dust particles hung in the air, caught in a bright shaft of sunlight. 

Claire and Roger went through the pack and Claire changed her clothes as best as she could in the corner of the room without help. Her body remembered the routine of it, but her muscles were both out of practice and sore from the ordeal of traveling through the stones. She had her hands still up in her hair, pinning it out of her face when Brianna turned around to show off her dirty hands. 

Her blue eyes went wide and she toddled over to her mother, hands reaching for the unfamiliar woolen skirt. Claire intercepted Brianna and swept her off her feet, into the air with a squeal of excitement. 

“Do you want to change too?” Claire crooned. “Do you want to look more like Mama?” 

What she’d managed for Brianna wasn’t too far off the sorts of dresses she was used to, especially since Claire refused to worry about trying to get Brianna to keep a cap on her head. She didn’t want to wear one herself, though she might change her mind for both of them as they walked in the sun the next day. 

She gave Roger a jacket that would be warmer than what he had and helped to camouflage the outlandishness of the rest of his attire. 

They had bought more food while in Inverness and should have enough stores to last at least a week, closer to two. With only her memory to guide her as to the direction, it would likely take them longer to reach Lallybroch. 

Sitting on the bench and looking out the window as the sun set and Brianna played on the floor with Roger, Claire debated the merits of heading to Inverness to secure some sort of transportation. She wouldn’t be able to afford a carriage or even a cart. She might manage to swing the cost of a horse but the last thing she needed was another living creature to wrangle. Roger might be able to ride, but keeping Brianna on would be next to impossible without riding herself and she didn’t know if she dared risk riding with both children and no one to help. 

She also didn’t want any further delays. She might not know the exact route to Lallybroch from Craig na Dun (not without the roads clearly paved and marked), but Inverness was the wrong way. 

So they set out on foot at dawn, Claire reminding Brianna that Fergus was waiting for them every time she slowed down or whined. She carried her daughter while she napped and Roger carried her piggyback for stretches. They made crude camps in the shelter of trees or a hillside or any other cover they could find. And slowly they made their way closer and closer to Lallybroch. 

“There it is,” Claire said as they crested the top of a hill and the valley spread out before them. It was the same hill where she had stopped the car when she’d driven Fergus and Brianna to Lallybroch for their picnic. Brianna wouldn’t remember and Fergus… Well, with any luck they were looking down on him now. 

“And ye’re sure tha’s where he’ll be?” Roger asked, nervous. The extended time on the road had worn away his faith in the plan. 

“If he isn’t, we’ll at least find some friendly faces and a place to stay for a few days while we decide what to do next,” Claire remarked.

“Gus dere?” Brianna asked. Hearing they were close, she began to perk up. Of course, the nap she’d taken in Claire’s arms had helped too. Claire set her on the ground and arched her back as much as her clothing allowed. 

“Only one way to find out,” she said and they began to head down the hill toward the gate.

Chapter Text

Fergus ran up the road to meet them as they approached Lallybroch, the three of them having been spotted by Young Jamie as he played in the yard. 

“Mother Claire!” Fergus cried as he ran.

Brianna began screeching with delight, forcing Claire to put her down so she could wave her arms and toddle toward him. Fergus swept her up and let her wrap her chubby arms around his neck. 

“Fergus,” Claire gasped, dropping to her knees when she reached him so she could look him over. “You’re alright? Oh, don’t you ever scare me like that again!” She clutched him to her, muffling Brianna’s excited cries of, “Gus! Found Gus!”

“Mother Claire, Milord is alive!” he exclaimed. “He did not die at Culloden. He is here!”

Claire pulled back, her hands shaking on Fergus’ shoulders as the color drained from her face. 

“Mrs. Claire?” Roger touched her arm, uncertain but reassured by Fergus’ presence and excitement. “Are ye alright, Mrs. Claire? Who is it didna die?”

“Claire Fraser,” Jenny said, walking slowly up the road from the yard, an infant in her arms. “It’s about time ye made yer way back here,” she said with a warmth that both scolded and soothed.

Claire stood on trembling legs and took the few steps to Jenny, disbelief and fear etched on her face. 

“The lad speaks true,” Jenny assured her. “It’s a tale best told inside wi’ a dram in yer hand to steady ye. Jamie and Fergus have told us about what happened to the pair of you as well—yer touchin’ the stones at the fairy hill. I’ve half a mind to skelp ye for no havin’ told us before ye and Jamie left. But as ye bade us plant those potatoes and as they’re a reason we’ve no starved these last two years, I’ll consider us even.”

“Jamie?” Claire whispered, trapped in a fog while everyone else around her seemed to move unimpeded. “He’s…”

“Ye’ll no see him till nightfall,” Jenny warned. “It’s no safe for him to be about but he’s itchin’ to see ye and to meet the bairn. He’s no alone, either,” she hinted. 

Claire blinked and reached to take Brianna from Fergus, clinging to the bit of Jamie that had grounded her every day since their parting. 

“Mama, found Gus. Home, pease?” Brianna said, patting Claire’s cheek in triumph. 

Claire caught the small hand and kissed the delicate fingers. “This is home now,” Claire explained with tears in her eyes. “And this is your Auntie Jenny.” Claire carried Brianna to Jenny who laughed as Brianna peered and frowned at her, deciding what to make of the stranger before her. 

“Baby,” Brianna said at last, pointing to the slumbering infant in Jenny’s arms. 

“Aye, lass. This is Michael. He’s one of yer cousins. Ye’ve a few more who’d like to meet ye and play wi’ ye.”

“Roger come?” Brianna asked, leaning over to look around Claire’s arm. 

“Yes, Bree. Roger’s going to stay with us now. Jenny, this is Roger Wakefield.”

“The lad ye told us of, Fergus?”

“ Oui . I knew Mother Claire would find him,” Fergus replied, nudging Roger’s shoulder. 

Roger looked more comfortable than he had since Claire first found him but there was also a tired resignation in the way he carried his shoulders. 

“Well, ye seem to be about the age of my young Jamie. He’s tendin’ the horses just now. Fergus, can ye take Roger and the two of ye help wee Jamie wi’ his chores?” Jenny suggested. 

“Horsie? Mama, I wanna see horsie,” Brianna said, squirming to get down. 

“I’ve a wee cheetie in the house needs yer attentions, a nighean ,” Jenny told Brianna, successfully distracting her.

Claire watched Fergus lead Roger away while she fell into step with Jenny. 

“Jenny, if I’d known…”

“I ken well enough, Claire,” Jenny stopped her. “Ye came all this way for Fergus. I ken ye’d have done as much as that or more for Jamie did ye ken he’d lived. There’s naught to do now but share yer stories, shed yer tears, and move forward.”

Brianna played on the kitchen floor with Maggie and Kitty while Claire helped Jenny bathe the twins. The three girls had taken to one another quickly, Maggie taking charge, Kitty enjoying no longer being the littlest and getting to help someone smaller, Brianna laughing at having playmates nearer her own age for a change. 

“She’s the spit of Jamie,” Jenny remarked, amazement in her voice as she lay wee Janet down on a fresh clout. 

“In temper as well as appearance,” Claire quipped nervously. She settled Michael into the lukewarm water, keeping tight hold as he flailed and splashed in surprise. It hadn’t been so long ago that Brianna fit in a washtub so small. Seeing the twins only a few months old drove home just how much Brianna had grown. 

“Fergus said ye’d called her Brianna as it was what Jamie wanted?” 

“The last thing I promised him was that I’d call the baby Brian for your father. She’s Brianna Ellen. Beauchamp, till now. Now I suppose she can be called Fraser.”

“Brianna Ellen Beauchamp Fraser should do nicely. Fergus says he goes by Beauchamp now too.” Swaddled and exhausted from the ordeal of being bathed, wee Janet was asleep before her mother lifted her to place her in a crate lined with blankets like a nest. Jenny pulled out another fresh clout and prepared for Michael’s exit from the bath. “And what of the other one? Roger?”

“His parents died in the war—the war where I first served as a nurse, where I learned most of what I know of healing,” Claire explained. “He was adopted by his mother’s uncle, Reverend Wakefield. Roger took his name but he was originally a Mackenzie.”

“Think he’ll wish to go by Mackenzie again? Like to find more friends ‘round here with that name than Wakefield,” Jenny noted. 

“Best leave it to him, poor thing. I wish I could’ve taken him back before coming for Fergus, but I couldn’t risk it,” Claire lamented, handing a dripping Michael to Jenny. 

“And will ye be able to return the lad now ye found Fergus? Can ye return him to his father and come back here to us… to stay?” 

Claire wiped her wet hands on a rag, unable to look at Jenny. Instead, her attention was on Brianna, Maggie, and Kitty. Maggie had an empty bowl in her hands and a spoon and was mixing the air inside, pausing to give Kitty and Brianna tastes of whatever she was concocting. Kitty and Brianna dutifully made noises of approval and nodded encouragement. 

“No,” Claire said quietly. “That last trip through to get here… it was too close. And I won’t send Roger through alone.”

“I’m no ashamed to say I’m glad of it for my part, though I’ll pray for the lad and his poor father,” Jenny admitted, settling Michael into the crate beside wee Janet. 

“Even though it’s four more mouths to feed when resources are already tight?”

“There’s hands attached to those mouths and there’s somethin’ to be said for the comfort the lot of ye bring, as well. The change in Jamie just seein’ Fergus again and hearin’ of you and the wee lass… I’d gladly give ye some of the food from my plate as thanks for seein’ Jamie smilin’ again.” 

“You don’t think he’s… You’re sure he’ll be glad I’m here?”

Jenny couldn’t help but laugh at Claire’s self-doubt, chasing some of it away. 

“If it were possible for Jamie to command the heavens, he’d speed the sun along to bring the nightfall sooner that he might see ye now,” Jenny assured Claire.

It was just Jenny, Claire, and Ian in the kitchen as darkness fell. 

Brianna had fallen asleep in Claire’s lap, cheek pressed to Claire’s chest. Claire’s arms held her close, her chin resting on Brianna’s fiery curls and her gaze locked on the fire burning low in the hearth as she waited. 

Jenny and Ian had ushered the other children through their suppers and up to bed, Fergus pulling Roger away and reassuring him that everything would be clearer in the morning. 

Claire didn’t notice when Ian disappeared and Jenny started watching her more closely, eventually rising and slipping out of the kitchen for her own bed. She just continued to watch as the flames in the hearth shrank, marking the passing time. 

“Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice came in a scratchy whisper and her head jerked up.

He was standing in the doorway, a worn, knitted cap clutched in his hands. He looked weary but alert, his posture stooped and stiff. His clothes appeared to be relatively clean, a little dusty and rumpled but recently mended. His hair was shorter than she remembered, the ends only just beginning to curl over his ears and at the nape of his neck. And his eyes shone as they locked on her. 

“Jamie,” Claire gasped. She held Brianna tight against her chest as she started to her feet and dashed across the room into Jamie’s arms. “You’re alive,” she wept. “You’re really alive.”

“And ye’re here,” he whispered, holding her with trembling arms and crying into her hair. “Jenny said ye’d come and Fergus… But I couldna let myself hope they were right.”

Brianna began to squirm between them, the activity and tight quarters rousing her from sleep. Claire stepped back, Jamie’s grip on her loosening but he kept his hands on her arms, unwilling to lose contact with her altogether.

Brianna blinked up at Claire, her face still slack with exhaustion. “Mama?”

“Hi, sweetheart. It’s alright,” she soothed, watching as Brianna blinked slowly, her eyelids reluctantly rising. “Mama’s here… and so’s Daddy,” she added with a soft glance at Jamie. 

Brianna’s eyes followed her mother’s until she met Jamie’s wide and wondering gaze. 

“Da,” he said, quietly. “I’m yer Da.”

“Da?” Brianna mimicked before yawning and rubbing her face against Claire’s collarbone. 

“Aye. Yer Da.” He lifted a shaking finger to brush Brianna’s hair back from her face where the ends tickled her cheek. She sighed and her eyes drifted closed once more, content. 

Claire dipped her head to press a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head—an act of habit for Claire, an act that mesmerized Jamie. 

“She’s beautiful, Claire,” he murmured. 

“You can hold her,” Claire offered, shifting her hold of Brianna to keep from disturbing her as the warm seal between their bodies broke for the gentle transfer. She focused on Brianna, carefully ignoring Jamie’s terrified and yearning expression. 

Brianna didn’t stir as her limp body settled against Jamie’s, her cheek resting against his chest in a way that meant he had to crane his neck to look down at her.

She looked so small in Jamie’s arms. Claire had to clear her throat at the lump that formed when she thought of how much smaller Brianna had once been and what she might have looked like then in his large, strong hands… that someone so big and broad could have played a role in creating someone so small and delicate. 

Jamie looked up from their daughter at last and caught Claire watching him, tears shining in both their eyes. 

“I love you,” she told him. A tear slid loose down her cheek at the relieved smile that played across his lips. 

“I love ye too, Claire. I dinna ken as I could ever stop, did I want to—which I don’t. Somehow, I’ve more love for ye now than I did before, and no just for her sake,” he said, nodding at Brianna and watching as she sucked the inside of her cheek while she slept. 

Claire hummed her agreement, stepping closer and rising on her toes, catching him by surprise with a kiss when he looked up again. 

It was gentler than her last memories, the ones seared into her brain and her body—a kiss filled with the promise of time stretching out before them, uncertain in everything but its existence. Questions of what would come next fled from them, retreating into that slowly expanding future and leaving them alone with one another and the night.

“Let’s put her to bed,” Claire suggested. She felt Jamie nod, his forehead rocking against hers. “Do you think it’ll be safe for you to sleep upstairs tonight?”

“Aye,” he murmured, breath caressing her cheek. “Though… I dinna ken as I’ll be able to sleep at all tonight.” There was a teasing edge to his voice that sent a shiver of desire down Claire’s spine, but the edge softened as he added, “I’m afraid if I go to sleep, I’ll wake and find it’s been a dream. 

“Me too,” she confessed, slipping her hand into his and giving it a squeeze. “I might need you to pinch me to make sure it’s all real.”

The chuckle that rumbled through his chest was very real. Turning back to the door and with a tight hold on his wife and daughter, Jamie silently led Claire out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

Chapter Text

Claire led the way up the stairs, pausing at the landing to watch as Jamie moved more slowly than she’d ever seen him. He was watching Brianna sleeping in his arms as much as where his feet were going. 

She found the door to the boys’ room and poked her head in. Fergus and Roger were sharing a bed, their backs to one another and each with a limb protruding from the blankets. Claire smiled, remembering the sleepovers they’d had in the last two and a half years. One or both of them would have wormed his way out of bed and onto the floor by morning without disturbing either of their sleep. 

“Tha’s Roger?” Jamie murmured over Claire’s shoulder. “Ian said ye had him wi’ ye.”

“That’s Roger. I couldn’t risk taking him back and wouldn’t let him go on his own,” she explained. “I feel like I’m condemning him to this life, orphaning him all over again.”

“We’ll do as right by him as we can,” Jamie promised. “If it weren’t for his accident wi’ the stones, Fergus would never have found me and you never would have followed him. It’s Roger here has brought all of us back together and I’ll do everything in my power to show him my thanks.”

Claire leaned back against Jamie’s shoulder. Brianna sighed in her sleep, reminding them of what they’d come looking for—their own bedroom. 

It was at the far end of the hall and smaller than the laird’s room they’d shared when Lallybroch belonged to them. Jenny had had a cot set up in one corner for Brianna—somehow away from the fire, the window, and the bedroom door. 

Jamie knelt to lay Brianna down and carefully pulled the blankets up to her chin. Claire closed the door behind them and leaned against it, watching him. He murmured a quiet blessing, brushing his fingertips across her forehead and crown. 

She crossed the floor and rested a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, smiling down at him when he looked up at her. 

“Run your finger along her cheek—just one finger, and lightly,” she told him. When he did, the corner of Brianna’s mouth ticked up in a smile. 

Jamie chuckled and did it again. 

“You do that, you know,” Claire said. “Since you were a baby, according to Jenny. I remember the first time I noticed Bree do it. I must’ve smiled and cried for half an hour, rubbing her cheek over and over and just watching her do that.” 

Jamie did it one last time before sighing and pushing himself to his feet. Claire stepped behind him and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back. He froze beneath her touch, then leaned his head back and brought his hands up to cover hers, draw them together until they were locked over his abdomen. 

She turned her head and pressed a kiss to the scars just tangible through the worn homespun of his shirt. Freeing her hands from his hold, she ran them lightly over his stomach and chest, thrilling in the sensation of the muscles tensing beneath her touch. Then the fabric was in her hands and she was gently tugging it free of his breeks. 

He took her wrists in his hands before she could try to pull his shirt over his head. Turning toward her, he bent his head to kiss each palm. 

“Claire…” he breathed, his voice rough. 

“Shhh.” She pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him. “Don’t… don’t say anything. Just… love me,” she whispered.

His mouth flexed into a soft smile. “Always,” he promised. 

Then, his mouth was on hers and they were undressing each other. He held her hand for balance while she stepped out of the pile of her skirts. She bit her lip to keep from laughing as he tugged at his stockings and nearly fell over. The surprise he showed when she removed her bodice to show she wasn’t wearing stays was magnified when he pulled her shift over her head and saw the white satin of her bra. 

She chuckled until he lifted a finger, running it against the round swell of her breast where it filled the cup. Then her hands were behind her, unhooking the contraption and slipping it off so it was her bare skin Jamie’s finger brushed on the next pass. 

That slightest touch of bare skin set something loose between them and then there was nothing between them. No space, no breath, no time. Just flesh pressed to flesh. 

The hairs on Jamie’s chest teasing Claire’s nipples till they hardened against him. The fingers of Jamie’s hands leaving trails of goose flesh across Claire’s back, leading down till the soft roundness of her buttocks filled his palms. The sound of Claire’s gasp as Jamie lifted her off her feet and bore her to the bed. Her hand pressed against his mouth to quiet his eager grunts as he thrust hard and deep, her back arching as her toes curled. The quiet moment where everything stilled just before… and then the final plunge that tore away all conscious thought and they were truly laid bare, to themselves and to each other. 

“She’s a good sleeper then,” Jamie murmured, propping himself on one elbow to peer over Claire to Brianna on her cot. She hadn’t moved since he’d laid her there but her breathing was a steady comfort in the background. 

“Mmmhmm. Better now than a year ago. Until she was weaned she woke like clockwork—that part was a relief—but then she’d fight going back down, which was not as much fun,” Claire chuckled. “There were some nights when Fergus found me walking with her or rocking her and he would offer to take her for a time so I might use the toilet or get a few minutes rest. He would sing to her in French or tell her of the adventure he had with you in Paris…” 

“A true brother to her then.” Jamie lay back down with a sigh of relief. 

“Indeed.”

“Has she had much time with Roger?” There was a note in his voice that had Claire turning to him, pulling the blankets up to keep herself covered. 

“Roger helped Fergus sneak out of his house the day I had Bree. He covered for Fergus as long as possible so Fergus could make it to the hospital to be sure I was alright. And when Roger accidentally touched the stones on Craigh na Dun, Fergus told the other boys to come find me and then he touched the stones to try and find him,” Claire said, with a gentle and protective fierceness.

“They’re brothers,” Jamie acknowledged. 

Claire nodded. “Like you and Ian. And since Fergus considers Bree his sister, you can bet that Roger will do what he can to protect her for Fergus’ sake, if not her own.” 

“Hmmm.” Jamie slipped his arm around Claire and pulled her down against him so her head was on his shoulder and he could rest his cheek against her curls. “I’m glad of it,” he murmured. “But I’m no quite sure where that leaves us. Ye’ve been gone two years and the two bairns we thought to have are now three.”

Claire giggled against Jamie, her fingers trailing along the edge of the blankets where they rested across his stomach. “You always said you wanted a large family.” 

“I did,” he breathed half a laugh before adding more seriously, “I didna think I should be an outlaw again when we did. Claire… I cannae even stay in the house for more’n a night or two together. What are we goin’ to do? Ken, I’ve no desire to be parted from ye again… but I dinna ken how—”

She covered his mouth with her hand, silencing him once more. 

“We’ll figure it out,” she assured him. “We’re together and that’s what matters. We’ll make the rest up as we go and take it day by day.”

He closed his eyes and nodded his agreement. She removed her hand and let it drift down to rest against his heart, the pulse beneath reassuring as she closed her eyes to try and sleep at last. 

“Ye made it through and back to me when I’d no hope to see ye again in this life,” he whispered. “If ye’ve managed that, I suppose we’ll manage anything.”

Chapter Text

Reverend Wakefield had always known about the activities his housekeeper engaged in at Craigh na Dun on various feast days, but he’d always turned a blind eye. Until he and Mrs. Graham had watched Claire Beauchamp touch the stones atop that hill with her daughter clutched in her arms, and vanish. 

She’d gone to find Roger and Fergus, to bring them back. But she’d promised if she couldn’t bring Roger back, she would at least make sure he was safe and not alone. After sitting watching the circle of stones for the better part of six hours, they gave up waiting on site and decided to wait at home. It could be days before she and the boys turned up… if they turned up at all. 

But they didn’t have to wait long for some answers.

As Mrs. Graham served tea in the library that afternoon, there was a knock at the door. A messenger sent with a letter addressed to Reverend Wakefield—a letter from Claire and Roger, dated 1941. They had left it with one of the reverend’s older parishioners, requesting it be delivered on a specific date. The messenger was her grandson who shrugged at what seemed to be a whim of his gran’s, a story and errand that suggested her mind was going, but at her age it didn’t hurt to humor her and the reverend would understand. 

Mrs. Graham thanked the young man and then ushered him out so she could find out what the letter said. 

Claire had found Roger but Fergus appeared to have ended up somewhere else. She doubted she’d be able to bring Roger back but promised he would be safe with her wherever — when ever — they finally landed themselves. Roger had included a small paragraph, his hand shakier than Claire’s. He told his father that he loved him and that he would make his way back when he was old enough to make the journey on his own.

And so, Reverend Wakefield waited. 

It was the year Roger would have turned fifteen that Mrs. Graham invited Reverend Wakefield to come to Craigh na Dun after the feast day ceremonies had concluded. She packed a luncheon and they sat side by side on a fallen tree, listening to the wind whistling through the stones and groaning in the tree limbs. 

The year Roger would’ve turned twenty, Reverend Wakefield began looking through the local histories, combing for any mention of someone who might be Roger. He didn’t know how far back he might need to go, so he simply started in 1941 and worked backward from there. He was able to eliminate Wakefields from his own family records and located a few possibilities, but nothing definitive — nothing reassuring. 

He still made the drive to Craigh na Dun the morning of each of Mrs. Graham’s druidic ceremonies, but he took his time about it. He clung to hope but it was with a practical grip, one that told him that a lot could happen in five, ten, fifteen years. Perhaps it was the stones themselves to blame. They had taken Roger without warning. Perhaps they now refused to let him return and he made similar journeys to the circle to try his hand, only to find himself stuck. 

Mrs. Graham wasn’t waiting at the base of the hill in her usual spot when Reverend Wakefield pulled up. He worried that she might have had some sort of medical episode and rushed from the car — they had both begun to show signs of their age these last few years. 

Winded, Reverend Wakefield slowed as he reached the summit of the hill and found Mrs. Graham seated on the fallen tree with a tall, dark-haired young man who could only be Roger and a red-headed lass who looked like she couldn’t be much older than seventeen or eighteen. 

“Roger?” Reverend Wakefield cried at the sight. 

The dark head whipped toward him and a glowing smile of recognition burst over his face. 

“Da!” he exclaimed, running across the stone circle and wrapping the reverend in a powerful hug. “I told ye I’d come back. I’m only sorry I took so long.” 

The young woman had risen and stepped closer, though she hesitated and shrank a bit when Reverend Wakefield turned to look at her. Roger noticed and, clapping his father on the back, took a step back and held out a hand to the lass. 

“Da, ye’ll maybe remember Bree — though I’m afraid she cannae claim to remember you,” he apologized with a teasing smirk at Brianna. 

Her cheeks flushed and she swatted playfully at Roger’s hand. 

“Aye, and I’ve a good enough excuse, havin’ only been a wean of two at the time,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“Claire Beauchamp’s daughter?” 

“Fraser, actually,” Brianna spoke up, then flushed again. “Mam, that is.” She looked to Roger and cleared her throat. 

“Bree and I were handfast a little over a week ago,” Roger explained. “We wanted her whole family to be there so it was done at Lallybroch before we left. Her parents brought her siblings with them to see us off. But… you see… I was hoping that you would marry us properly.”

Mrs. Graham laughed with joy, clapping her hands and rushing in to hug the young couple. The flurry she caused helped hide Reverend Wakefield’s speechlessness. 

“So… ye’ll do it?” Roger asked, looking to his father. 

Suddenly, Reverend Wakefield saw and truly recognized the lad he’d taken in and adopted. The hope and pleading in Roger’s green eyes was the same as whenever he’d asked for just one more biscuit before bed or if Fergus could stay the night or some other treat he desired. 

And as with the majority of those requests, Reverend Wakefield felt himself nodding his agreement, just to see the bright smile break across Roger’s slightly sunburnt face. 

“It’ll no necessarily be easy—the two of ye disappeared some time ago and it’ll put everyone in a tizzy to see ye back again,” he cautioned. “But I’m sure it can be managed.”

Mrs. Graham was nodding vigorously. “There’s nae time to lose,” she remarked, starting to head down the hill. “Come, Reverend. Give them a moment,” she whispered, slipping her arm through his and ushering him away with her. “Leave them to say their last goodbyes.”

Reverend Wakefield glanced over his shoulder at his returned nephew and the young bride he’d chosen, still suffering from a bit of disbelief that they were there at all. 

Roger had slipped his arm around Brianna and was holding her close, a supportive gesture as she turned back to look at the stones they’d traveled through a short time earlier. 

Everyone knew that Roger would go back through the stones one day. He’d never been easy about how things were left with his adoptive father and he wouldn’t be until he saw him again. But as they’d gotten older, it had also gotten harder and harder for Roger to make himself go. Not if it meant leaving Brianna behind. 

So she’d chosen to go with him. Even when it meant leaving her own family behind, perhaps forever. It was why they’d had such a party come with them to see them off. 

They’d all climbed the hill, though the rest of the Frasers had taken great care to keep well away from the stones. Jamie heard nothing but kept a solid hold on William while Fergus kept his eye on Jacob. Patience refused to be put down, preferring to nuzzle against Claire’s neck while she watched her older brothers take turns hugging Brianna and then Roger and Fergus embrace briefly. 

Roger and Brianna had a tight hold of each other before glancing back one last time. Claire smiled and Jamie nodded, and with that, they’d pressed their hands to the stone and were gone. 

“Ye’ll see some of them again,” Roger murmured. “There’s no way yer younger brothers will pass on the chance for an adventure.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Brianna told him. “They dinna ken the dangers of it, to say nothing of the grief they’ll visit on Mam and Da.”

“It will grieve them less do they ken there’s a safe place for them here, should they take it in their wee minds to cause such trouble,” Roger reassured her. “And I cannae wait to build that place wi’ you, Bree.” He kissed her temple and then rested his chin on her head as she melted into him and let his comfort steel her for what still lay ahead. 

“Yer father and Mrs. Graham will be thinkin’ we went back again ourselves if we keep them waitin’ any longer.” 

“After you, Mrs. Mackenzie,” Roger teased, enjoying the self-conscious flush it brought to Brianna’s cheeks.

Chapter Text

“Gentle Bree,” Claire whispered. “You remember ‘gentle,’ don’t you?”

A weight pressed on Jamie’s chest as Brianna climbed on top of him. He opened one eye, squinting the other shut tighter. 

She squealed with delight when she saw him looking up at her. Unfortunately, the squealing was accompanied by excitedly waving her arms and bouncing up and down. 

“Sorry,” Claire said, quickly pulling Brianna off of him and into her own lap. Brianna wriggled to get loose again but Claire had a firm hold of her. “Someone was up earlier than she should have been.” Claire yawned. 

Jamie blinked a few times before sitting upright with a groan and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s fine, Sassenach. Better’n fine.” He leaned over to give her a smile and a kiss. “My sweetest dreams involve wakin’ to find ye beside me in bed. Havin’ the bairn here too only makes it sweeter.”

Brianna laughed. “Mine hairs,” she said, pointing at Jamie’s head and attempting to stand up. Since Jamie was properly awake and sitting, Claire let her, offering her hands for Brianna to brace herself. 

Distracted by the way the mattress moved under her feet, Brianna looked down and stepped slowly, experimentally, then harder trying to bounce. Confused, she looked over her shoulder at Claire. 

“Sorry, darling. Beds don’t do that here. They need springs in them for that.” 

“What’s wrong wi’ the bed, Bree?” Jamie asked, reaching out a hand so she could transfer from Claire to him.

But hearing her name from Jamie redirected her attention again and she beamed at him, before throwing herself into his arms with a giggle. He hugged her back, pulling her into his lap and grinning over her shoulder at Claire. But the smile became a grimace as Brianna struggled to her feet (still in his lap) and reached up to pull his untidy hair. 

“Mine hairs,” she repeated, pulling his head down and his neck into an uncomfortable angle. 

“Gentle, Bree!” Claire chastised, reaching out to free Jamie from their daughter’s enthusiastic grasp. 

“Mine hairs!” Brianna screeched back in explanation. 

“Yes, darling. Da has the same color hair that you do.” Claire succeeded in calming Brianna down and pulling her away from Jamie and into the space between them on the bed.

He rubbed his head. 

“Da’s head is hurted?” Brianna asked, turning to Claire, confused. 

“Yes,” Claire chuckled. “You pulled his hair and that hurt his head. See.” Claire gave a gentle tug on one of Brianna’s curls, only enough for Brianna to reach her hand up and swat Claire’s hand away, a scowl on her face.

“Gentle, Mama,” Brianna scolded, waving her finger at Claire. 

“I’m sorry, Bree,” Claire said formally. “It wasn’t nice of me to pull your hair. Now, can you apologize to Da for pulling his hair?”

Brianna turned to Jamie. “Sorry, Da for pulling mine hairs on your head. Your head is better now?”

Jamie smiled and leaned forward to kiss Brianna’s forehead. “Aye, mo nighean ruaidh . Ye took a few wee hairs wi’ ye but ye’ve left me my scalp intact.” 

“Mo nee rue?” Brianna mimicked. 

“Aye,” Jamie nodded. He pointed to her and repeated, “ Mo nighean ruaidh ,” then reached over and took one of Claire’s curls between his fingers and said, “ Mo nighean donn .” 

Fascinated, Brianna continued mimicking Jamie’s words in a sing-song voice. 

“You’re teaching her Gaidhlig ?”

“Of course, Sassenach. She’s a Scot living in the Highlands. She’ll be hearin’ it all her life,” he grinned with pride. Then went back to babbling with Brianna, lifting her from the bed and taking her to stand at the window so he could point out various things in the yard and tell her what they were called, turning it into a game.

Chapter Text

“She’s a lass, Mam?” Jacob asked, climbing onto the bed to curl up next to Claire and stare down at his newborn sister, consciously happy to be a big brother but only just starting to feel the shift of attention away from him to the new baby of the family. 

“Yes she is,” Claire crooned as the baby freed her arm from the blanket to stretch. Jacob quickly reached out and caught hold of her curled fist, stroking her knuckles with his thumb and watching, mesmerized as her fingers splayed in response. 

“What’re ye callin’ her?” Brianna asked from beside Jamie. With him seated and her standing, Brianna was a few inches taller. Even with Claire’s letters detailing the changes in their children over the years, it had been a shock to see them grown so much, especially Brianna who, at nearly fifteen, could hardly be considered a lass any longer. Though, perhaps it was the way she looked after young Roger that drove the fact home. If she had her way (and she likely would, having Claire and Jenny as her primary role models), it wouldn’t be much longer before Roger looked after her in the same way.

“Her name is Patience,” Claire told their brood. She didn’t think she would ever tire of seeing them all under the same roof, let alone in the same room. Fergus stood at Jamie’s other side, a congratulatory hand on his shoulder. Roger leaned against the window frame, his arms crossed and that little bit apart that still broke Claire’s heart after so many years – uncomfortable being included cause he still didn’t know how he fit with the rest of them during moments like this. 

“Patience?” William repeated, skeptically. He’d taken up a post on the other side of the bed but held back, considering himself too grown to crawl up next to Claire like Jacob had. 

“Aye,” Jamie said. “She wouldna be here were we no able to wait and be patient through all we’ve suffered, bein’ apart. She’s the reward for all that. The last of you bairns God’s gifted to us.”

“Well,” Brianna said, striding over to the bed and reaching down to take the babe from their mother’s arms. “I did always wish for a wee sister.” Jacob frowned to William who shrugged as Brianna carried the baby over to Jamie so Fergus and Roger could have a better look at her. 

“Da says she’s the last,” Jacob said quietly to Claire.

“I think so, darling,” Claire told him. They hadn’t been trying for another child — hadn’t thought it possible, let alone likely. But they’d certainly been happy when her irregular courses had given way to additional symptoms of pregnancy rather than menopause. They would be careful for a few more years though. It had been more difficult this time than with either of the boys. After all their years apart — first when she and Fergus had gone to the 20th century, then with Jamie away at prison before being paroled and finally returning home — they weren’t willing to risk anything happening to either of them if they could take steps to prevent it. 

Besides, their family felt complete. Jamie had missed so much of Jacob’s infancy as well as all of Brianna’s. He wouldn’t miss that again and they would have some years before Brianna was likely to wed and possibly leave Lallybroch. 

“I cannae believe I was ever so wee,” Jacob declared, looking at how small Patience was in Jamie’s arms. 

“Ye were though, a bhalaich ,” Jamie assured him. “Ye spent many an hour tucked right here in the crook of my arm while yer mam chased after Bree and Willie. Ye would turn yer head to watch them run about, and yer eyes would go crossways,” he recounted, demonstrating the dazed look and making them all laugh at the impression. “And then ye’d close yer eyes to make it stop, and ye’d turn yer head back against me to hide from them. And then ye’d let out a breath and ye’d give up and drift off to sleep.”

Claire kept her eyes on Jamie, watching him carefully. He had spent as much time as he could with Jacob in those early days, both of them sensing that a change was coming. That last time the Red Coats had arrived, they’d been too close to discovering Jamie in the house. Jenny had been giving birth to Ian and Mrs. Crook and Mary MacNab were busy helping with supplies and tending to the children while Claire saw to Jenny and the baby. Jamie had kept to the priest hole and had Jacob in there with him – the only place quiet enough for him to sleep and have the direct attention he still needed at just a few weeks old. 

He’d started crying while the Red Coats were in the house. Luckily, they’d been able to pass the cries off as those of newborn Ian. 

But it had been too close. If they’d found Jamie, they would have punished the whole estate for hiding him. So he’d decided to have one of the tenants turn him in for the reward that would keep Lallybroch running in the years of hardship to come. Claire had been left to raise the children in his absence with help from Jenny, Ian, and Fergus. They had managed and recalled those first two years after Culloden, remembering it could be worse. It hadn’t made it easier, though, when Jamie finally arrived home from his parole and Jacob had hidden behind Claire’s skirts, having no memory of his father. The lad still drifted toward Claire more often than not. 

“What about when I was a wee bairn?” William asked. 

“You refused to sleep,” Jamie informed his older son with an accusatory glare. “I believe ye kent we were busy about our business whenever ye closed yer eyes and ye couldna bare to miss it. Always watchin’ and kickin’ to be a part of what yer sister and yer cousins were doin’. Ye walked before ye were a year, eager to follow after ‘em.”

William’s face was pink as the others chuckled and laughed at the tale, but there was a proud smile tugging up the corners of his mouth (so like his father’s). 

“Brianna smiled when she slept,” Fergus chimed in. “I could touch her cheek and she would not wake, but she would smile like she knew it was me.”

“I bet she still does,” Claire teased lightly. “According to your Auntie Jenny, your father did that when he was just a babe and I know… that every once in a while, he still does.”

“I’ve plenty to be smilin’ about, Sassenach,” Jamie assured her, grinning as she flushed at his attention.

Jacob slipped off the bed and crossed the room to Jamie. He reached out a finger and gently stroked Patience’s cheek. Sure enough, her mouth twitched into a half smile.

Jacob beamed up at Jamie. “She does it too!” 

Before Jacob could try again and risk waking the baby, Jamie used his free arm to scoop the boy onto his lap, tucking him close. Jacob leaned his dark head against Jamie’s chest, sighing as he watched his baby sister sleep.

Chapter Text

It began as a sort of game between Roger and Fergus when no one was around, a way to deal with Roger’s homesickness, especially in those first months. What things from their lives in the future did they miss the most? Football. Bicycles. Their friends from school. Going to the cinema. Listening to the radio.

Playing in the woods when their chores allowed, Roger would imitate the broadcasters or recall commercial jingles with a clarity that had Fergus doubling over with laughter. 

But the underlying sadness was more than Fergus could help his friend with alone. So he volunteered them to help Claire on one of her gathering trips in the woods. When it was just the three of them, Fergus began the game and Claire joined in.

She had spent far more time in the future. Like Roger, she was of the future in a way neither he nor Brianna were (young as she was, she had already lost her memories of where and when she was born).

When the game petered out, they continued their scavenging quietly. At least, until Roger recognized the song Claire was humming and began to sing along.

He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way...

Fergus recognized the tune but couldn’t remember the words and certainly wouldn’t have sounded as good as Roger did.

Claire joined Roger, grinning along and dancing a little making both boys laugh.

When they’d finished the song, Claire complimented Roger on his singing and asked if he’d picked up any of the songs Mrs. Crook knew (she always sang quietly as she went about the kitchen, though she wasn’t particularly good). 

Roger hadn’t but the seed was planted and Roger had a new hobby.

“He has a surprise for us,” Claire informed Jamie as she tidied him up. There were dried leaves in his hair which needed to be trimmed or the dun bonnet would be useless for covering the distinctive hair of Red Jamie. 

“And do ye have any idea of what his surprise may be?” Jamie asked. He winced as Willie gnawed on one of his fingers.

“Hold still,” Claire scolded, smiling behind Jamie’s back as their three-month-old son gurgled in his father’s lap. She knew how much it meant to Jamie to have been there for Willie from the beginning (how bittersweet that Brianna couldn’t remember being without him). It was also a minor miracle that Jenny had goaded him into giving up the cave for the priest hole while winter bore down on them. 

And it would take another for her to convince Jamie it was safe enough for him to make an appearance at the Hogmanay festivities (having been so recently arrived the previous year, they’d kept the day as a family but learned of the tenants’ disappointment soon after). It would mean a great deal to so many for a glimpse of the true laird with his family reunited as the British army continued to raid and terrorize the countryside even three years after the loss at Culloden.

“As a matter of fact, I do know what it is, but telling you would mean ruining the surprise for both of us,” Claire informed Jamie, “And it means too much to Roger for me to do that so you will attend and you will be surprised. And you will enjoy yourself,” she tacked on as an afterthought.

Jamie rolled his eyes at Willin in the mirror. The babe ceased gnawing on Jamie’s finger in order to giggle.

“Alright. Time for you to have a proper wash so we can get the rest of this rat’s nest under control.” Claire took Willie from Jamie, holding him so he could watch as his father sighed and reluctantly stripped and climbed into the lukewarm tub, the chill in the room having quickly sapped the water of its heat. 

Despite Claire’s assertion, Jamie remained reluctant to risk being seen too publicly.

“I can stay above stairs wi’ Willie and Brianna,” he told Claire. “Have Roger tell ye when for the surprise and I’ll slip down for that bit.”

“If it makes you more comfortable, I believe you can enjoy his surprise from the banister upstairs,” Claire compromised. “I’ll let him know he’ll be able to spot you there.”

So Jamie made sure he was in place as a handful of tenants arrived for the modest festivities (given the universal hardships, the family had decided to rotate who would be invited year to year). 

Willie was teething and fussy in Jamie’s arms as he looked around for Roger in the small crowd below. He spotted Fergus first. The lad was helping guide a few men bearing instruments to one side of the hall, ushering folks to clear the space for imminent dancing. Roger was close behind conversing with a man carrying a fiddle.

There was something in Roger’s arms but none of the others took it from him when the group settled in their places, laughing as young couples eagerly gathered ready to dance. Roger ended up shuffled off to the side but still stood with the players.

The largest and oldest of them looked around at the others, nodding as fiddles and flutes were raised. Then he motioned to Roger who began to beat a steady rhythm on his bodhrán. Soon the others joined in and the couples began to clap along and dance. 

Jamie couldn’t follow the music itself very well, but he could pick out Roger and that steady bodhrán beat, keeping time for everyone else. At the end of the first piece, Roger glanced up to where Jamie stood at the railing with Willie. Jamie gave him a proud smile and nod, then lifted Willie’s hand in a wave. Willie fidgeted and bounced enthusiastically. He squealed with delight as they began the next piece.

Jamie stood watching through three more songs before carrying Willie off to put him to bed and check on Brianna. Besides, they’d be sending the firstfoot out soon and they’d want him safely tucked away for that. 

Claire ushered Roger and Fergus up to bed a short time later, the festivities downstairs winding down. 

“You played beautifully,” Claire told Roger, sitting at the edge of his bed and brushing his dark hair away from his eyes.

“Alec Mackinnon said he’d continue to teach me the songs he kens,” Roger said with a tired but somehow still excited yawn. “No just the bodhrán either. Though, it doesna quite feel like Hogmanay wi’out… you know.” He raised his eyebrows at Claire who smiled in a way Jamie recognized too well. She never wanted the children to think she was laughing at them, no matter how amusing the things they said might be.

“You’ve done very well not to say anything about it,” Claire commended him. “But now it’s just us. It should be safe now and, I agree, it doesn’t feel complete without it,” she said with a conspiratorial glance to Jamie and Fergus who were both baffled.

Roger smiled and sat up in bed. Fergus lounged with his head propped up on his hand. Jamie took a seat next to Brianna’s cot where she and Willie slept. They’d take Willie to his cradle when they returned to their own room for the night.

“Softly now,” Claire reminded Roger before nodding for him to start. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot…

Claire dropped off after the first chorus but Roger remembered and sang the second and third verses as well.

“You sing as beautifully as you play,” Claire assured him. “Like a songbird.”

“A smeóraich ,” Jamie agreed. When Claire gave him a confused look, he explained, “A thrush.”

“Time for bed, smor– how do you say it again?”

Jamie repeated it for Claire a few more times, eliciting giggles that turned into yawns. She gave up and tucked Roger back in.

“The song you and Roger sang earlier… It’s of the future?” Jamie asked as he held Claire in bed a short time later. He’d be back in the priest hole the next day but refused to spend the first night of the new year anywhere but next to Claire.

“Yes and no,” she said with a sigh. “It will come to be associated with celebrating the new year in the twentieth century, but the words will be penned by a great Scots poet in another decade or so.”

“A great Scots poet,” Jamie mused, grinning in the dark.

“Mmmhmm. And it’s not just in Scotland that he’s celebrated or that song that gets sung. It becomes popular the world over… At least, to my knowledge. There’s even a night celebrating his birth that’s a sort of unofficial holiday.”

Jamie scoffed. “Now ye’re teasin’ me, Sassenach.”

She curled into him and nuzzled against his chest. “Not at all,” she yawned. “I’ve been to my share of Burns Night celebrations over the years.”

“Hmmm… Sounds nice,” Jamie murmured as he drifted off to sleep, the words of the song – which he’d had Claire repeat for him slowly – ran through his dreams. 

We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne…