He’d often had that thought himself. Hotly, even, when he realized that Alexi had been stricken by one of the diseases—which one? God only knows, take your pick—which periodically swept through Edinburgh. As that same sickle swept through every part of the world.
But he’d restrained his temper then, and felt none of it any longer. Such was the nature of things. There was all of human wisdom, if not science. It was not his province, to heap a husband’s wrath atop a mother’s grief.
He stooped, folded his arms around her and held her close.
“Don’t be a fool, love,” he whispered into her ear. “She could have been struck down in Grantville also. ‘Tis the way of things, that’s all. If she dies, we’ll have another child. Never forgetting her, of course, and the joy she brought us. But not letting that memory blacken itself either.”
Julie started to cry. Slow, quiet sobs. Alex kissed the tears.
“Please, Julie. You have given me so much, this past year, from your future world. Now let me give you some of Scotland. ‘Tis God’s will, that’s all, whatever it be. The child’s soul is in no peril, only her mortal sheath. The loss will be ours, not hers. If God chooses to bring her early, ’tis only because He could not bear to wait Himself for the joy of her company.”
She turned her head into his shoulder. The tears flowed still, but the sobs ebbed away.
“You think so?” she asked softly.
“Of course,” he replied. There was no need to fake assurance now. However much he might have changed in many ways, in this matter Alex Mackay was still a son of Scotland.
“Let me give you some of my world now, beloved wife. For the world we are creating will need that also.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it will. Me, most of all.”
When Darryl McCarthy entered the prisoner’s cell, bearing the spray gun, the prisoner did not flinch. He did not even give him a stony gaze. Simply watched, seeming more curious than anything else.
Darryl waited until he heard the door being barred behind him, then moved quickly over. He reached into a pocket of his poncho and pulled out some batteries.
“Gimme the walkie-talkie,” he muttered. “Quick. We haven’t got all that much time. I talked the Warders into thinking these cells need regular spraying, but . . .”
He fell silent, while he switched the batteries. They’d recharge the old ones in their suite in St. Thomas’ Tower, using the same pedal-operated generator that powered the radio. The batteries in the walkie-talkie were probably still good, but Darryl had no way of knowing how often the English would allow him back into the cell.
“Tell me, if you would,” the prisoner said softly, “the nature of your grievance.”
Darryl scowled. He made no reply, at first. But then, as he sprayed the cell, began a recitation of the reasons for his anger. By the time he finished, even Darryl was wondering how coherent the explanation was.
“So,” mused the prisoner. “Killed half the Irish, did I? Odd, that. Are you familiar with the island? In this day and age, I mean.”
Darryl said nothing. His scowl deepened.
The prisoner nodded. “I thought not. I’ve never been there myself, you understand. But ’tis a well-known place. Full of hills and rocks and little valleys—and precious little in the way of roads. So I am wondering, a bit, how I managed such a fearsome slaughter. How many years did I spend at the task, hunting down all those Irish that I might slay the half of them? And what, exactly, was my purpose in doing so? I’ve not much use for the Irish, mind you. I’ll not claim I love that priest-ridden folk. But I’ve no fierce animosity against them, either. And it does seem like a great deal of effort for no conceivable good end.”
Finished with the cell, Darryl moved over to the prisoner and squatted next to him. “I dunno. I’ll find out. Now lift your arms and stretch out your legs. This stuff ought to be sprayed under your clothes, too. Especially wool like you’re wearing. Keep your mouth and eyes closed and hold your breath.”