Waking among the fallen on Culloden Field, he is concerned neither for his men nor his wounds but for his wife and their unborn child. Jamie Fraser is, alas, not dead-but he is in hell. However, his nose throbbed painfully, which he thought odd in the circumstances. In this rich, vibrant tale, Diana Gabaldon continues the story of Claire Randall and Jamie Fraser that began with the now-classic novel Outlander and continued in Dragonfly in Amber. Sweeping us from the battlefields of eighteenth-century Scotland to the West Indies, Diana Gabaldon weaves magic once again in an exhilarating and utterly unforgettable novel. Her use of historical detail and a truly adult love story confirm Gabaldon as a superior writer.”- Publishers Weekly
The only time I would dare walk though a puddle was at twilight, when the evening stars came out. If I stepped in there, I would drop at once, and keep on falling, on and on, into blue space. Sometimes, seeing the tiny ripples caused by my approach, I thought the puddle impossibly deep, a bottomless sea in which the lazy coil of a tentacle and gleam of scale lay hidden, with the threat of huge bodies and sharp teeth adrift and silent in the far-down depths.Īnd then, looking down into reflection, I would see my own round face and frizzled hair against a featureless blue sweep, and think instead that the puddle was the entrance to another sky. I believed it was an opening into some fathomless space. It was because I couldn't bring myself believe that that perfect smooth expanse was no more than I thin film of water over solid earth.
Not because of any fear of drowned worms or wet stockings I was by and large a grubby child, with a blissful disregard for filth of any kind. “When I was small, I never wanted to step in puddles.
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