#claire said i love plants i love my friends i love dusty i love my family

[brutalteague]

𝚄𝙽𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎

[maviemesregles]

Once I was an Eagle

Aaaaaand, I'm back! I know it's been bloody ages since the last update but I needed a break. I also had been busy with other ficlets so OIWAE was put on pause. But the story is back and I do hope you like this instalment. I really, really like this chapter.

I am absolutely horrible at answering the comments (which I'll fix, promise) but I do see each one of them! I LOVE reading what your thoughts are, whether you liked some moment or a particular turn of phrase, I appreciate it all. No matter if it's one word, emoji, or a big analysing comment. Thank you lovies for staying here with me. <3

Anne, you’re my gem  💜 @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur​

Read on AO3

     Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

Chapter III: Catharsis

Chapter IV: Lovestruck. Part I

Chapter V: Lovestruck. Part II

Chapter VI: Flecks of Sun

Chapter VII: Mince pies & baubles

                                           Chapter VIII: Home

Blood pounded in Claire’s ears muffling the music and the howling wind outside. Jamie’s face blurred as the tears gathered at the brink of her lower lashes. She inhaled deeply, blinking furiously to get rid of the swell of moisture in her eyes. Closing them Claire could feel Jamie moving towards her, gently touching her arm, voice concerned.

“Claire, was it too early? Did I-”

He could not finish his sentence because she dissolved into ugly crying. Clinging to him, gasping for air and in general being an awful mess.

“Shh, mo graidh. Shh. Tis alright.” His hands wrapped around Claire in a familiar way, thumb circling the tender skin at her nape softly.

“I.. I’m going to ruin your shirt.” Sniffing, voice muffled by his aforementioned shirt Claire leaned back to look at the mess she created. Her running nose and damp cheeks imprinted a mascara-black wet blot on green fabric. She could hear Jamie chuckle as he picked her up and sat down with Claire curled on his lap.

“I dinna care one bit about the shirt, lass.” Lips gently pressed a kiss to her forehead. Claire sighed though still gasping for air. The comfort of Jamie’s warmth made her body become limp.

“I’m not crying because I am sad,” Claire whispered, hand cupping the back of his head. “I... I’m crying because I’m happy, Jamie. Happy to live with you.”

Dropping a kiss on the bridge of her nose, he smiled.

“Aye. Me too, my Sassenach.”

* * *

It was the beginning of what seemed like an endless hunt for what would become a perfect flat for us. We spent about three weeks chasing an ideal place, checked at least ten flats scattered all over Edinburgh but none of them was quite what we were looking for (not far away from my work; with a park nearby to allow Jamie to go on his morning jogs. And it needed to have a large living room and be pet-friendly.)

Jamie (bare-chested, skin still flushed from the shower) was performing his magic by preparing the scrambled eggs I loved so much while I sat on the windowsill, feet in fuzzy socks propped up the wall. As I scrolled through rental ads on Jamie’s iPad I felt the pressure of upcoming headache from all this searching. And suddenly, there it was. The place that we were looking for.

A stone-built ground floor house had a spacious kitchen and a huge living room adorned with an old fireplace. The ceilings were so high I thought there is no end to them. “Canna wait to hear yer voice inside these walls” Jamie smirked at me as we followed behind the agent chirping away about how great this flat is. “Whatever do you mean?” I quirked my brow at him. He leaned closer, whispering into my ear, his warm breath tickling the little hairs on my nape. “Weel, those sounds ye make when I-” Giggling, my elbow pressed into his ribs, stopping him before any dangerous and inappropriate (for the agent) revelations could occur.

Grand windows allowed the sun to slip into every little corner of the flat and made it breathe with light. There were two bedrooms with hardboard wooden floors and a small study fully equipped with bookshelves. French doors in the kitchen opened to a garden with a southern exposure was the last deciding straw for me. It had everything we needed. Adso would be welcome to live here, it was a fifteen minute drive from my work and there was a park just across the street. Although it was rather pricey, Jamie ignored my hissing remark “Almost four grand quid? Fucking insane,” and said that we should sign the rental agreement. I kissed him senseless allowing the feeling that this is us now, our own place fill me up.

The rental price had changed our plans a little bit. Forcing us to spend a couple of days moving small furniture and other possessions Jamie and I owned to our new accommodation by ourselves. At the end of it all, sweaty and tired, we sat on the boxes in the empty living room, watching the snowfall outside the huge windows.

“Are ye happy, Sassenach?” Jamie gently pulled me by the wrist to his side. My hands cradled his face as I stood up and found myself a prisoner between his thighs.

“Of course I am, James Fraser,” thumb caressing the apple of his cheeks I glanced around. “Only I have no idea how we are going to organize this mess.” It feels like between the two of us there are millions of boxes and bags, packages. I’ve brought the plants I owned (the only three I managed not to kill), a box full of uncle’s Lamb belongings, an enormous contemporary art painting Geillis got me for my 30th birthday two years ago. Adso had his belongings too, a scratching post, litter tray and his own little blanket. Adso himself was being babysat by Geillis while I and Jamie tried to sort out our moving. Jamie was currently sitting on a stash of my medical books destined for the study.

“We’ll manage, a nighean ” His hands patted my hips, bringing me closer. Planting a soft kiss on the washed fabric over my sternum, Jamie looked up. “We canna do more than our best.”

My stomach had the quite opposite opinion of doing our best and rumbled loudly.

“God, I’m starving” yawning I reached for the cellphone.

Later, full and warm with chicken ramen, curry with prawns and wok-fried greens we had just enough strength in us to unpack most of the carton boxes that said “Kitchen”. In that hour and a half, we managed to laugh, listen to Jamie’s Dire Straits playlist on his phone and argue over ridiculous things. Putting away a bitty family of my mugs and cups Jamie dropped my favourite mug Frank bought me a very long time ago and I never could get rid of it. It was massive and bright yellow, with Friends on it. It was my all-time binge-love TV show. It shattered in yellow pieces atop the counter and floor. I didn't mean to snap. But we both were bone-weary from a long day of moving back and forth, of a week packing before, exhausted from all the searching catching up with us. Suddenly I felt my chin quiver at the sight of my beloved, now broken mug.

“I’m sorry, Sassenach.” Jamie bit his lip, trying to reach me with his hand over the island counter but I shrugged away.

“Why are you so bloody clumsy, ” I mumbled, kneeling to pick up broken ceramic bits. Jamie rubbed his face, clearly wanting to say something, but instead he bent to help.

Annoyed just by him breathing next to me at that moment I dropped collected pieces straight into the bin. When he tried to sweep the floor from the dusty mug remains I snapped.

“Oh, please, just move away, or you’re going to break something else.”

I regretted the words right after I’ve said them but blood was already pounding in my ears and there was no way back.

“I said I’m sorry,” Jamie muttered, looking visibly irritated himself now. “It’s just a mug, I’ll buy ye a new one.”

The tension crackled with its force.

“I don’t want another bloody mug! ” I barked at him trying to busy myself opening a new box. “Frank gave it to me. It was my favourite one.”

Time seemed to stop for a second as Jamie slowly licked his lips looking me straight in the eyes.

“Frank?”

Unable to hold his gaze anymore I turned my back to him staring out of the window.

“Don’t you start playing a jealous boyfriend on me,” I grunted, telling myself to calm down. You know he doesn’t mean it bad.

He grumbled and I could hear him retreating to the living room.

“Why are ye bitching about it, Claire?” He hissed and I thought I could feel his words crawl inside me like a poisonous snake.

“What?” I followed him to the room (aka the mess) full of boxes.

“Nothing.”

“Repeat what you just said,” I demanded.

He didn’t. Instead, we spent the next hour in different rooms unpacking. Or pretending to. I wasn't able to do a proper job and stopped on one box. As the sweat cooled off on my skin and the urge to cry faded away I plodded down the hallway towards the bathroom. Passing the living room I caught a glimpse of Jamie placing my candles (that he hated) on top of the fireplace. The sight gave my heart a painful (and guilty) squeeze. Deciding that taking a shower, putting fresh PJs on and making us both a nice cup of tea would make both of us feel better.

I turned on the hot water. It was blissful and caused me to go limp. Engrossed as I was I did not hear Jamie come in. Shedding his clothes wordlessly, he stepped into the shower behind me. Cupping one breast, he dropped a kiss on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry I snapped, Claire. And I’m sorry for ye wee mug.”

Turning to face him, I nodded and kissed his jaw softly.

“I am sorry, Jamie. I was unreasonable and acted like a jerk.”

Our earlier argument was mended when his lips sealed on my neck, leaving me breathless. Moments later I cried out as I sagged against the tiled wall, him still inside me.

We slept on a makeshift bed that Jamie constructed from his mattress and two blankets just right in front of the fireplace. We laid, limbs entwined, among the boxes and bags, hands lazily tracing hills and valleys of each other bodies. “I love you,” I whispered before my mind drifted away into the realm of Morpheus.

* * *

Weeks later our flat finally started looking like somebody really lives here. With all our mismatched furniture, collection of books (mine mainly botany and poems, and Jamie’s classics and fantasy), with a horrid motorbike engine of Jamie’s (the one he used to drive in his uni days). No matter how much I asked him to throw that away he squealed like a girl protecting her virtue, not letting me come near that metal monstrosity. We agreed to put it away in the second bedroom which initially became a storage room.

One evening as I rocked my hips atop of him Jamie smirked that we marked each room in this flat. “ Aye, we did” I said mimicking him as I yanked my scrub top off over my head. Jamie made my body go limp against the shower tiles; he drew mewling sounds out of me on the kitchen table; my moans bounced off those high ceilings in the living room; his laboured breathing filled our bedroom and crawled up the walls. I gasped at the feeling of him in the storage room when Jamie announced his evident desire for a quickie; and he groaned “Oh, Claire” following his meandering Gaelic cursing as his hands tangled in my curls while I kneeled down unzipping his jeans.

Every time I showed up at work Geillis would never forget to ask me with a wink “So, my darling, how’s yer wee ginger? Loves ye well? I TOLD YE. Yer fucking glowing like a candle, Claire.”

Living with Jamie was a whole new experience. Now I had the luxury to wake up to his sleepy face and mussed curls every day. He would make the most miserable facial expression as I switch on the table lamp, grunting and burying himself under the layers of blanket. James Fraser was definitely not a morning person. “Five in the morning is torture,” he mumbled sleepily as I pressed a goodbye kiss to his forehead. “Normal people sleep at this time, ye ken. Go, save yer humans, Sassenach.” Squeezing my hand he turned to snooze immediately. But as soon as I got to work my phone would beep with his text message every morning “Have a great day, a nighean. Love ye.”

Any other morning I had a chance to stay in bed longer he’d wake me up with his hands, his mouth and his body molding into mine much like matching puzzle piece. I could not remember life without him anymore. Without his perfect morning coffee for me; without our banter or seriousness full talks in the darkness of the night, his hands on my hip, thumb carving the shape of my pelvic bone; without lazy evenings on the couch with Netflix and takeaway, my head resting on his chest, Jamie’s hand wrapped around my waist, and Adso curled on his lap.

Every day I had a pleasure of observing his fucking gorgeous post jog body. But like any other couple, we shared our bit of things that drove us crazy. Jamie had this annoying habit to turn the TV on so loud I had to scream like a banshee from the kitchen to get his attention. He also seemed to be very dedicated at the task of leaving the puddle of water on the bathroom floor after showering. I would not even want to mention his morning cologne spraying session that left a suffocating smell in the hallway. But, I myself was far from perfect. I had to endure him rolling his eyes at me and making disgusted faces as he plucked my hair out from the shower drain. Also, Jamie was patient with me and my attempts to cook and never protested eating ordered food. He would often volunteer for the task seeing me struggle with slimy spaghetti. But all those things did not matter as each night I fell asleep saying “I love you” lulled by his steady heartbeat beneath my cheek.

It had gotten to the point where I found that I could not live without him. So when Jamie had to leave to Inverness for three days I cursed at his business the whole day. Without him, I felt like the part of me was torn away and even Adso purring by my side couldn’t remedy the feeling. That’s why now I shamelessly found my place on Jamie’s lap, sparkling rosé in my hand. Our kitchen was filled with laughter, chats and instrumental indie playing from Google Home speaker Jenny and Ian gave us as a gift. The food was rich and tasty, the wine was pleasantly chill and Jamie’s left hand on my hip too much to handle. We haven’t made love for three days and I was positively flushed with desire. My skin was on fire - a mix of alcohol, laughter and Jamie.

“So, Claire, I do hope ye like yer wee rug?” Angus tried to wink at me sipping his red. I rolled my eyes and looked over my shoulder to have a look at his present again. It was a door rug in a bright green colour with a white cat on it that said: “Don’t forget to pet my pussy-cat”. He shoved it into my hands grinning. I was taken aback and did not know what to say. Meanwhile, Jamie broke into almost hysterical laughter, as I stood mouth agape. “Ye do have a cat, no?” Angus snorted and I only managed to nod as he welcomed himself inside our flat.

“Very thoughtful present,” I said, saluting my glass to Angus.

Untangling myself from Jamie’s embrace I excused myself to the bathroom. I washed my hands and caught sight of my face in the mirror. Cheeks pink coloured I splashed cold water on my face, feeling the drops run down my neck. Hair drawn back in a sweaty knot. When Jamie opens the door there is a trail of loud raucous laughter coming from the kitchen follows him.

“I’ll be right back,” I said thinking he came to get me. But the next moment the latch on the door clicked closed. His lips sought mine and he tasted of whisky leaving the burning sensation on my lips. His hands reached under my sweater, tracing the small of my back and then soft skin on my belly.

“I love them all, but I swear if they dinna leave soon, I’m going to have to kill all our guests” Jamie breathed out heavily as my hands fumbled with his belt, tugging at the stubborn zipper of the jeans. He cursed something in Gaelic that I did not understand when my fingers found his hot flesh.

“I might kill them myself,” I agreed, gently biting at his earlobe. My mouth fell open when Jamie snaked a hand between us, curling and tasting me with his fingers exactly right.  

“Christ, Claire” He muttered under his breath, fingers damp from his exploration. But our moment was rudely interrupted by Murtagh unceremoniously knocking on the door. “What are ye doing there, ye wee beasties? We need more booze.” Grunting in annoyance Jamie slid his belt back in and reached to pull my rolled sweater down. Kissing him chastely, we made it out back to our guests.

Over the next several days, we both were swirled into the routine business of life seeing each other mostly in the evenings. I’ve been extra busy at work and Jamie still had to finish important tasks at the brewery. Both of us exhausted, we barely managed to order takeaway, with me falling asleep on the couch as soon as the food was finished as a new episode of Peaky Blinders played. Jamie would carry me to the bedroom. He crept in beside me covering us both with a quilt. We would touch fingertips and sleep holding each other until the sun came uninvited, crawling inside the room. There was a silent agreement between us and the sex was at bay. There was a day when Jamie’s hands glided over my hips, finger drawing patterns at the panties waistband. Sleepily, I mumbled that I’m gross and disgusting and in need of a shower and shave. The other day I managed to pull off my sexiest face and slowly pull down my knickers I turned to find Jamie had fallen asleep soundly, mouth slightly agape. Chuckling, I picked my discarded underwear and slid under the blankets next to his starfish sprawled body.

Standing in the locker room at the hospital I’ve snapped a photo of myself. I turned myself provocatively displaying my ass to look as if I spent days in the gym (I did not of course) but nonetheless Jamie seemed more than fascinated by this body part of mine. Sending him the picture with capslock text “TONIGHT FRASER” I retreated back to work. All morning and lunch I spent thinking of the upcoming evening. Geillis took me out of my thoughts by grabbing my hand in the hallway.

“Claire, are ye alright?” Her eyes examined my face worriedly. “Ye look as pale as the wall behind ye.” I shook my head, reassuring her it’s nothing but a bit of nausea.

“I’m fine, Geil.” Running a palm over my clammy forehead I felt the imminent need to vomit. “It’s probably that sushi I had for lunch with Joe. I told him it did not look good.”

Giving me judgmental-mother look and shaking her head Geillis still made me sit down and close my eyes.

“Ye work too much, lass. Jamie needs to take ye on a holiday.”

The perspective of vacation sounded like an unreachable luxury at the moment but under Geillis’s superior look I agreed to go home earlier tonight. It started to rain hard outside when I crossed the threshold, dropping the bags of groceries down. Deciding that I might as well cook today instead of having takeaway again I strolled down the kitchen feeling slightly wamble and dizzy. After taking Pepto-Bismol and hoping it’ll help calm down my disgruntled stomach I opened a can of cat food, summoning Adso. But my cat was nowhere in sight. I’ve checked every nook and little corner, under the bed and couch. In the storage room as last time Jamie closed the cat in there by accident. My furry baby seemed to have vanished into thin air and I felt an oncoming wave of worry mixed with nausea. The open window in our bedroom hit me with a realisation. Eyes swelling with tears I dialled Jamie.

“Christ, Sassenach, I must have forgotten to close the damn window and the cheetie ran away.”

He promised to find him. I spent the evening googling stories of cats running away and cried some more thinking of my poor Adso alone in the cold rain, scared and hungry. I was sure I would not see my cat again. It was around midnight when the front door opened, Jamie’s footfalls startling me from my broken sleep on the couch. I rubbed my puffy eyelids as Jamie stepped inside the room.

His clothes were soaking wet, face painted with tiredness. But the smile on his lips was an encouraging sign. Unfolding his jacket Jamie stroked Adso’s grey ear who was nestled against his chest.

“Jamie! Oh, I can’t believe you did it.” I jumped up, taking Adso into my arms. He was wet and dirty, paws leaving marks on my skin. “Where did you find him?”

Taking off the jacket, Jamie leaned down to receive my kiss on his cheek.

"Here, you must be freezing cold." I reached for the bottle of whisky, pouring him a glass. When he gulped it down and his cheeks turn into baby-pink he told me.

“Ye’d never believe it. I spent hours just driving over the neighbourhood, mistaken at least three cats for him, but he was nowhere. And then I had an idea, it was crazy but possible.” Jamie ran his hands through his damp curls. “I drove to yer old place. And there he was, sitting in front of the door of yer old flat.”

“Oh, my poor baby,” Cradling Adso I reached for the towel I had just in case Jamie managed to bring him home. “Why did you run away, you silly?”

“I’m sorry, Claire. 'Twas my fault, I left the window open.” Jamie patted my thigh gently, looking guilty.

Lening in to kiss him, I traced his cheekbones with my fingers.

“You found him, Jamie. It’s all fine.”

* * *

Jamie woke to the sudden absence of Claire in the bed, her side of the blanket looking like a messy ball at the end of the bed. He could hear the water running in the bathroom. Glancing at the clock that showed three in the morning Jamie called out her name. When no response followed, he swung his legs down the bed, worry caused a cold feeling in his stomach as he walked to the bathroom.

“Sassenach, are ye al-” The words stuck in his throat seeing her small figure, curled on the floor next to the toilet. “Christ, Claire, what happened?” He kneeled down, cradling her head into his lap. His heart was pounding away in his ribcage, fear filling every fiber of his being. She looked pale as a paper sheet, sweaty curls stuck to her skin. Shaking her head weakly, she mumbled as quiet as he ever heard her “I’m okay.” But she was decidedly not okay. Her eyes closed then. Jamie picked her up, rushing to the car outside and mentally thanking all existing Gods that the hospital was just fifteen minutes away. Jamie was there in precisely seven minutes.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Is there a Tagalong update on the horizon? I LOVE LOVE LOVE that story so much and can‘t wait for Jamie and Claire to reunite, for Fergus to be surrounded by Mother Claire AND Milord again, for Jamie to meet Bree, for the Murrays to see Jamie smiling again....I truly can‘t wait! 💕💕

Received this when the next update was already queued, haha. I hope you enjoy the various reunions contained herein. There’s only one more chapter and then the epilogue to go. ~ Mod Lenny

The Tagalong - Part Twenty-Two

Fergus disobeys Jamie’s order to return to Lallybroch and instead follows them all the way to Craigh na Dun, inadvertently following Claire through the stones.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, Part Sixteen, Part Seventeen, Part Eighteen, Part Nineteen, Part Twenty, Part Twenty-One

***********************************************************

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.

[irenedonnee]

At Last 1. Alone and Blue as Can Be

A/N: New fanfic alert! Yes, I know I still have to finish Kind of Woman and Attachment, but I promise I will! This story is inspired by the book Jamie writes about Claire in my other fic The Writer Who Loved Me. It tells the story of Jamie Fraser, a soldier who moves back home in Inverness after the end of the war. He meets Claire Beauchamp, a bookstore owner, and find a muse in her. Since it was @julesbeauchamp who forced me to write this fic, I decided to post it on her birthday 🤓 happy birthday gurl😘 I would also like to thank @curlsgetdemgurls for doing the beta of this chapter! Enjoy!

Jamie never thought he’d live to see the end of the war. He had nothing of a soldier except his physique. Lieutenants and commanders loved his height, his long legs that made him run faster than the other men; they loved his build, his strength to carry weapons or injured mates. Everything they loved about him, it disgusted Jamie.

Before this bloody war started, Jamie was a writer, fresh out of university, living in New York with his mother and sister. He had just started to work for a local newspaper when the United States joined the Allies in 1941 and he was sent to the front. Not as a journalist, but as a soldier. The first time he held a gun during the first week of training, he thought he was never going to see his mother’s face again. He was young, only twenty six years old with a lot of life yet to live.

He still remembered the day he learned that the war was over. He was in a field hospital, confined to bed with a bullet in his knee, hallucinating because of the morphine. After being transported back to London, he stayed in rehabilitation for a few weeks and was sent back to his family in New York, but a few months after he came back, his sister got married and he was alone with his mother.

Of course, his mother and sister were in heaven to see him back alive, even if he constantly needed the help of a walking stick. Jamie, on the other hand, regretted every moment he spent breathing. He couldn’t bear being alive, the beating of his own heart made him sick. He didn’t deserve to live, not more than any of his friends who had lost their lives in Europe.

In addition to his disgust of being alive, Jamie couldn’t write anymore. He spent months moping around the small apartment, unable to write down words. There was nothing he could do that could make him feel alive.

He never told his mother about it, but he tried to kill himself two months after he came back. He didn’t know what was worse, his nightmares or the inability to write. Before the war, he couldn’t spend a day without writing. He always carried a pad and a pen around, writing about everything and nothing. When he was twelve, his mother bought a typewriter for his birthday, with which he wrote his first novel, a novel he never published. After the war, every word that came out of his mind made him want to hide with shame. Shame of being alive, shame of living to write such stupidities.

So one Sunday night, after spending the day in front of this old typewriter machine without touching one key, he took a cab to the Brooklyn Bridge. He stood facing the rushing water forty meters underneath his feet for hours, tears streaming on his face until he finally decided to painfully walk back home. He would have to bear his skin for the rest of his life.

“Maybe ye should go back home to Scotland,” his mother told him one night they were dining together.

He looked up at her, brows furrowed. Jenny had moved back to Scotland with her husband. They lived in a small flat in Edinburgh, but he didn’t want to be a burden for them.

Jamie shook his head. “Scotland is no’ a home anymore,” he said, looking down at his plate.

“New York is no’ a home either.”

“I canna go back to Scotland…” he whispered.

Growing up in Scotland, Jamie had spent his childhood in his ancestral home, Lallybroch, a castle standing tall in the valleys of clan Fraser. When the Great War was declared in 1914, Jamie’s father was sent in France to fight with the Allies. Pregnant Ellen Fraser decided to move with her sister to North Carolina during the war. Brian Fraser was killed in 1915, a few days after receiving a letter from his wife, saying he was the father of a beautiful, red headed son.

When the war ended, they went back to Lallybroch but it felt different, estranged, like they had never lived there before. After running out of money, the Frasers decided to move back to the United States in 1920. Ellen found a job and thought it would be best to be on a soil that wasn’t destructed by bombs. Jamie lived in a city he hated in an apartment he hated for years until he enrolled. He had no place to call a home and it would always be this way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But when his mother mentioned moving back to Scotland that night at supper, he didn’t reject the idea.

For days he thought about it and thought that maybe going back to his roots would help him with his writing. He was ready to do anything to find inspiration, to write like he did before. Passionate, fearless and simply brilliant.

Without moving permanently, he decided to go back to the motherland for a few months. He told himself he would only come back once he wrote something. He tried to set a goal, a hundred pages, two hundred, but he thought it was pointless. His expectations were very low.

***

Jamie landed in Scotland in May 1946 with nothing but a small suitcase, his typewriter - the same one he had since he was twelve - and his walking stick. He didn’t want to stay in Edinburgh and even less in Glasgow, so he bought a train ticket for Inverness. What Jamie needed was calmness, serenity and silence. He thought Inverness was the perfect place for it, even if it was a little too close to Lallybroch for him.

He arrived during the afternoon and stopped for tea at Mrs. Graham’s, a small coffee shop facing the River Ness. He asked her if he could leave her his suitcase for the day while he wandered around Inverness. But before he went out, he slowly drank, finally tasting good tea after years of horrible yellow piss. He closed his eyes and sighed. While eating a scone, he read the local newspapers, but closed it as soon as he turned the page on an article about the war. He couldn’t read it just now. He wanted to know more about this event. He needed to really know what he had been part of, the reason why he had killed men, the reason why thousands and thousands of people had died, the reason why his leg was crippled for life, but it was too soon. He left money on the table, drank one last sip and put his hat on his head before he walked out.

He noticed a bookstore right next to Mrs. Graham’s. He decided to go, thinking maybe a good book would help him during sleepless nights. Maybe reading would help him better than desperately trying to write.

He saw a ‘Room for rent’ ad on the door and pulled it opened, a bell ringing when he stepped inside the place. It was much bigger from the inside, rows filled with books everywhere. Too many rows. There was a comforting smell of mint and plants in the air, a smell that pleasantly tickled his nostrils. He felt peaceful, and almost smiled. He noticed the gramophone next to the cashier, from which My Love For You by Frank Sinatra was playing.

“One minute!” he heard a feminine voice call from behind the store.

He took his hat off, starting to wander around the bookshelves. The books were dusty, ordered by the writers’ names. Jamie didn’t know exactly what he was looking for until he saw her.

“Hello! Can I help you?”

Jamie opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. She was beautiful, with rebellious brown curls flying around her head and with shining beautiful whisky eyes. Her lips were pink and luscious, begging him to kiss her.

She lifted her dark brows, waiting for an answer. “Has the cat got your tongue?” she smiled. The most beautiful smile he had ever seen. For the first time in months -if not years- he felt seen. He found himself smiling back, something he hadn’t done in a while. At that moment, when the corners of her mouth curled up, he knew she had cast a spell on him and that he could never leave her. Or at least, not without being haunted by her voice until his heart stopped beating.

“No,” he finally said. “I… I am looking for a book.”

“Well, you’re at the right place for that,” she smiled. He blushed, looking down at his feet. “Are you looking for something specific?”

“No,” he was speechless. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t say a word. He knew he looked ridiculous, but he didn’t know what was happening to him. Jamie had never been in love, maybe it was like that.

“Alright�� Well, I’ll let you look around. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

She turned around and walked to the backstore. She was wearing trousers stained with dirt and he couldn’t help but look at her bum. Swearing in his head, he looked at the books, not finding anything interesting to read. He could only think about those whisky eyes.

After checking around, he took a deep breath and hesitantly walked  towards the backstore. “Uh… Excuse me?” he asked. She came out of a room, dirt on her cheek. “Maybe I need help, after all.”

She smiled and wiped her hands on her pants. “Alright,” she took a sip from the cup of tea that was resting on one of the shelves.

“I havena read in a verra long time. In six years, actually. I havena read a book in six years.”

He saw a shadow cross her face as she did the math, but she immediately smiled back. “Well, I can help you find something that will fit you.”

“Nothing too… Nothing about the war, nothing about… Something different.”

She frowned, a smile still glued on her beautiful lips, thinking seriously. “Maybe it’s a stupid question, but have you ever read Agatha Christie?”

“No…” he said, blushing.

“Well, that could be a choice. Follow me.” He followed her to the front of the store were dozens of books from this writer were waiting together. “You have the choice between the elderly, amateur detective British woman Miss Jane Marple or the retired Belgian detective Hercule Poirot based in London.”

“Which one is your favourite?” he asked, the corner of his mouth curling up.

“Well… I love them all, but if you have to read one to begin with…” she looked at the books on the shelf and handed him one. And Then There Were None. “Ten people compliced of murders -but not convicted- are invited on a mysterious island where they are killed each at a time.”

Revenge, bloody trials, he thought he was going to like it.

“I’ll take it.”

“Great!” she smiled. “I hope you will like it… I’ve never seen you around… Are you traveling?”

“Yes, you can say so. But I am staying here for a while. How much for this?”

“Oh,” she waved her hand. “Nothing. It’s on the house.”

He looked into her eyes. “Just because I have a walking stick doesna mean that I canna pay for my own books.” His voice wasn’t mean, it was only the truth.

It was her turn to blush, her cheeks turning crimson red. “I didn’t mean to… I just…”

“Dinna worry,” he smiled warmly. “I saw that ye are renting a room.”

“Yes. Are you interested?”

They walked upstairs to the room that was for rent. It was a small room with a double bed by the window facing the river. There wasn’t much in the room: a small sofa and a small kitchen. “There is only one bathroom to share with the other room.”

It was simple, but Jamie thought he could make it a home, especially if she was just next to him. “I’ll take it.”

“Great! Oh! and by the way, I am Claire.”

“Jamie,” he smiled, shaking her hand.

***

Of course, it rained that night.

Jamie was lying in bed, looking at the water drops falling against the window. He felt surprisingly peaceful, hearing the echoes of a Ozzie Nelson record playing in Claire’s room. He found himself smiling at the thought of her.

When he came back from the army, when he went back to New York, Jamie never thought he could be happy again. Just smiling was difficult and it took all the effort in the world to convince his mother that he was alright. When he came back, there was a heavy weight on his chest, crushing him, cutting his breath short. There was a hole in his heart that was slowly swallowing him alive. There were images burned in his head, images he could never forget and that came to haunt him when he was least expecting it.

But when he walked into the bookstore, he had felt at peace, as if he had entered a safe haven. And when he saw her, he felt as if he could breathe again for the first time in his life. When she smiled at him, it was as if the sun returned and cast out the darkness.

There was something about her that he found intriguing. He wanted to know everything about her, from her childhood to the reason why she owned a small shop in Inverness. She was English, that was for sure. He immediately recognized the accent when she spoke to him. He didn’t think she was from London, though. He’d known londoners during the war and they didn’t speak like she did.

He’d seen the dirt on her trousers and by the smell in the bookstore, he thought she might be gardening in the backstore.

Clearly, she wasn’t married. She was not wearing a ring and he had not seen a man enter the place since he first came in, almost ten hours ago. He was ashamed just to think about it, but he was happy that she probably wasn’t.

He didn’t know much about her, but he decided that during the following months in Inverness, he was going to get to know her.

Suddenly, he felt the need to get up and write. Putting on his pants, he got up and walked to the small table in the kitchen. He took the typewriter out of its box and sat in front of it. His bum wasn’t even seated when he typed the first word.

She was a woman of mystery.

He couldn’t help but smile, thinking about the way her curls rioted around her face. Claire. He wanted to say it aloud, hearing how it sounded on his mouth, but he wouldn’t risk her hearing it.

Still, Jamie was not at ease with the idea of thinking about her this way. But he couldn’t help it.

Elizabeth. He was going to name her Elizabeth.

Jamie just started to write about this Elizabeth. He knew nothing about her, but as the words came out of his mind, as he filled pages and put them on a pile next to him, he started to get to know her. She was simply inspiring.

The hours passed and Jamie started to yawn, his eyelids becoming heavy. It had been a long day. He decided to go back to bed, bringing the papers with him. He sat against the wall, and with the light on the bed table on, he read for hours, a smile never leaving his face. He didn’t know if the reason for it was the thought of her or the accomplishment of writing pages he didn’t want to burn.

After a while, he put them on the nightstand, turned off the light and closed his eyes, lying down on his back. He sighed, letting his mind wander. Elizabeth. He tried to think of how he was going to tell her story. Of course, he couldn’t write about a bookshop owner in Inverness. Yet, every time, his mind came back to this. He knew it was the story he had to tell. Her story.

He listened to her footsteps in the room next to his, feeling reassured by her presence. He slowly fell asleep to the words of the music playing in Claire’s room.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me

[recentanimenews]

Random Reads #1

All hail the debut of a new recurring column of sorts, collecting reasonably short reviews of disparate books.

A Banquet of Consequences by Elizabeth George While A Banquet of Consequences is not the best Lynley and Havers mystery I have read, it’s still great heaping loads better than the last one (Just One Evil Act). In fact, in my review of the latter, I wrote “I wanted a book with Havers triumphant. A Havers showing that, despite her problems with professionalism and authority, she really has something amazing to offer.” And that’s pretty much what we did get this time around.

When Claire Abbott, respected feminist author, is found dead in a hotel room while on a book tour, her death is first ruled a heart attack. After her persistent friend and editor insists on a second opinion, a more thorough toxicology screening reveals the presence of poison. Having met the author and her truly odious personal assistant (and chief suspect), Caroline Goldacre, Havers begs Lynley to pull strings for her so that she can investigate, which doesn’t go over very well with Superintendent Ardery. Happily, Havers does do a competent job, though this doesn’t go very far in improving Ardery’s opinion of her.

Mystery-wise, there were elements that I guessed, but I did still enjoy the element of ambiguity that remained at the end. Too, I liked that in the next volume, the Italian detective from Just One Evil Act (probably the best thing about that dreadful book) is going to be visiting England. He was quite sweet on Havers, as I recall! My one real complaint is that Lynley had hardly anything to do, except intercede on Havers’ behalf, contemplate his relationship with Deidre, and look after an admittedly adorable dog.

Still, it’s good to have my faith in this series somewhat restored!

The End of Everything by Megan Abbott Lizzie Hood and Evie Verver are thirteen years old and have been BFFs and next-door neighbors for as long as they can remember. Lately, though, Lizzie has begun to realize that Evie is no longer the open book she once was. (“I know her so well that I know when I no longer know everything.”) When Evie goes missing, Lizzie does all that she can to help bring her home, while being forced to acknowledge that maybe there had always been a darkness hidden within her dearest friend that she had never noticed.

In addition to the mystery of what’s happened to Evie, this book deals a lot with Lizzie’s burgeoning sexual feelings. Though she has some contact with boys near her age, she’s really smitten with Evie’s gregarious father. She longs to be close to him, to provide clues that give him hope, to take his mind off what’s happening. She exults in her ability to affect him. In the process, she somewhat usurps the place that his eldest daughter, Dusty, has filled. What I actually liked best about the book is that Abbott leaves it up to the reader to decide—is Mr. Verver’s relationship with these girls crossing a line? Perhaps his intentions are utterly pure (and, indeed, it seems like he might be crushed to hear someone thought otherwise), but there are some things he does and says that just seem so inappropriate.

Ultimately, I liked this book quite a lot (though I feel I should warn others that some parts are disturbing). Abbott offers several intriguing parallels between relationships to consider, and I think it’s a story I will ruminate over for a long time to come.

The Ex by Alafair Burke Twenty years ago, Olivia Randall sabotaged her relationship with her fiancé, Jack Harris. Now he’s the chief suspect in a triple homicide and Olivia, a defense attorney, is hired by his teenage daughter to represent him. Initially, Olivia has absolute faith in Jack’s innocence (and feels like she owes him because of how she treated him) but mounting evidence eventually makes her doubt whether she ever really knew him at all.

In synopsis form, The Ex sounds pretty interesting, but the reality is something different. Olivia herself is not particularly likeable. Setting aside how she treated Jack in the past, in the present she drinks too much and is having a casual relationship with a married man. I think we’re supposed to come away believing that this whole experience enables her to grow past some parental issues inhibiting her ability to find real love, but it’s glossed over in just about the most cursory way imaginable. And because the narration is in the first person, other characters who might have been interesting—namely a couple of other employees of the defense firm helping with the case—are exceedingly undeveloped.

The mystery plot itself is average. The final twist wasn’t something I predicted from the outset, but once a certain piece of evidence was revealed, it turned out to be very similar to another mystery I’d just read so it was a bit of a slow slog to the inevitable conclusion. The writing is also repetitive, with the significance of various clues being reiterated over and over. One genuinely unique aspect of the book is that because Olivia is a defense attorney and not law enforcement, she wasn’t overly concerned with actually solving the case, so much as finding plausible alternate suspects to establish reasonable doubt. Perhaps that is why some things the culprit did were left unexplained and some evidence unaccounted for, though it could have just been sloppy writing.

I don’t think I shall be reading anything else by this author.

Girl in the Dark by Marion Pauw Set in The Netherlands, Girl in the Dark is told in alternating first-person chapters between Ray, a man with autism who has spent eight years in jail for the murders of his neighbor and her daughter, and Iris, a lawyer and single mother who discovers by chance that Ray is the elder brother she never knew she had. She is convinced of his innocence, despite evidence that he is capable of destructive rage, and begins investigating the case and pursuing an appeal, while trying to get her icy mother to talk about her past.

Although the book is advertised as a thriller, most of the time I was more infuriated than thrilled. Leaving aside the question of Ray’s guilt or innocence, the way he was/is treated by others—including Rosita, the opportunistic neighbor who used and then rejected him, as well as one of the employees of the institution he’s been transferred to, who seemingly frames Ray for smuggling drugs into the facility (there’s no resolution to this minor plot point)—generates a great deal of empathy. In particular, there is an especially cruel scene near the end of the book that made me literally exclaim, “Jesus Christ!” Although he occasionally exhibits frustrated fury, Ray is also shown to be sweet and thoughtful, at one time a skilled baker (thriving in an environment that prioritized both routine and precision) and obsessed with the welfare of his tropical fish (currently in his mother’s care).

I didn’t come away with as vivid a sense of Iris as I did Ray. The scenes involving her job and clients were, in a way, mental palate cleansers from the stress of Ray’s situation, largely bland and unmemorable. When she finally gets her hands on Ray’s case files, her end of the story improves, but there are aspects of the final resolution that are kind of ridiculous. That said, I thought the ultimate ending was satisfying and I doubt I’ll forget the book any time soon.

Mr. Kiss and Tell by Rob Thomas and Jennifer Graham Mr. Kiss and Tell came out in January 2015. I had pre-ordered it the previous May, but when it arrived I just couldn’t get into it, despite a few attempts. A couple of months later, iZombie debuted. It had all the hallmarks of a Rob Thomas show and, lo, I love it. So much so, in fact, that I started to feel like I’d be okay without further adventures in Veronica’s world. Mr. Kiss and Tell spent the next two years occupying various spots in my living room. Then, finally, I read it. And I remembered how deeply I love these characters and now I am totally sad that there aren’t any more books beyond this one. Yet.

I was somewhat disappointed that the first Veronica book, The Thousand-Dollar Tan Line, did not follow up on the movie storyline about police corruption ion Neptune. Happily, that plotline gets some attention in this book. Weevil is acquitted of the charges against him, but his reputation and business has taken a hit, so he agrees to a civil suit against the county. Keith works to find others who’ll testify about evidence-planting, and meanwhile a candidate enters the race against Lamb, who’d been running for reelection unopposed. There’s some closure on this by the end of the book, but still plenty of room for more going forward.

Veronica, meanwhile, is hired by the Neptune Grand to investigate a rape that took place in their hotel. The case has quite a few twists and turns, although it surprised me some by not twisting as much as I expected. (So is that, therefore, a twist?) By far, however, the best parts of the book are the conversations between the characters. Veronica and Logan, Veronica and Keith, Veronica and Weevil… I could vividly imagine each being performed by the cast, which is almost as good as not having to imagine. I especially liked that things still aren’t 100% perfect in Veronica’s world, and Logan is only home for a few months before the accidental death of one of his friends means that his shipmates are a man down. Veronica struggles to understand why he feels so strongly that he must return early, leading to my favorite scene, in which Logan reveals what his life was like in the years she was gone, and how he ended up in Officer Candidate School. It’s a bit implausible that they hadn’t had this conversation before, but it’s riveting nonetheless.

In fact, my only quibble is a bit of timeline fluffery near the beginning. On the whole, this was immensely satisfying and I will continue to hope for more books in the future. After all, never giving up hope has worked out for Veronica Mars fans in the past!

The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie This was a reread for me, but one I hadn’t yet reviewed, since I read it shortly before creating this blog. (I did review Christie’s second and third books before getting sidetracked. This time I shall persevere and read them all!)

A soldier named Hastings, invalided home from the front, runs into John Cavendish, an acquaintance who invites him to recuperate at Styles Court, where Hastings had often visited as a boy. It is Hastings who narrates the story of what happens there. In brief, instead of John inheriting Styles Court upon the death of his father, the property was bequeathed to his stepmother, Emily, upon whom he is presently dependent for funds. When Emily is poisoned, suspicion initially turns to her strange (and substantially younger) new husband, Alfred Inglethorp, and then ultimately onto John himself. The cast of suspects is rounded out by siblings, spouses, friends, and servants. Hastings suggests bringing his old friend Hercule Poirot in to investigate.

I did remember “whodunit,” along with the explanation for one perplexing aspect of the case, but otherwise, most of this felt new to me. In fact, I think I enjoyed it even more than the first time. Oh, I still find Hastings annoying, but Christie’s depiction of Poirot’s appearance and mannerisms struck me as especially vivid this time around, and I was left with a more distinct impression of him than I’d held previously. (I had somehow acquired a mental picture of Poirot that had him looking like Alfred Hitchcock!) Although some of the clues are a bit convoluted and/or improbable, the overall solution is satisfying and makes sense. What’s more, my enthusiasm for tackling the rest of Christie’s oeuvre has been rekindled!

The Outpost by Mike Resnick In an effort to broaden my horizons and read more science fiction, I went looking for books that might appeal to fans of Firefly. In the course of that search, I came across The Outpost. The notion of a bunch of space-faring outlaw types gathering at a bar on the edge of the galaxy, swapping stories, then banding together to fight off some aliens sounded appealing. Don’t be fooled like I was.

While it is indeed true that a bunch of space-facing outlaw types do gather to swap their stories, these recitations are actually highly embellished tall tales, and they seem to go on for an interminable amount of time. Finally, during a brief middle section of the book, the bar’s patrons go off and fight some aliens, and getting a glimpse of reality, including several pointless and unheroic deaths, was the best part of the novel. All too soon, they’re back at the Outpost, telling their war adventures with varying degrees of embellishment. It’s at this point that several very boring arguments on the ethics of “improving” history ensue.

It’s true that sometimes, I did smile or laugh at something, but on the whole this book just riled me up. None of the characters has any depth whatsoever, and several are positively odious. Many of the stories told by the guys involve busty and lusty women, and it’s fine if the characters themselves are sexist (to be fair, one of the female characters does call them out on this eventually), but most of the female characters created by Resnick are also vampy vixens whose stories are sex-oriented and bodily proportions repeatedly emphasized.

I listened to the unabridged audio version read by Bob Dunsworth, and I cannot recommend it. He frequently misreads and mispronounces words, so that at one point someone is wearing “flowering” robes instead of “flowing” ones, “defenestrating” loses a syllable, “etiquette” gets a “kw” sound, et cetera. Making it through the book was a tremendous slog, and more than once I cursed my completist nature.

These Vicious Masks by Tarun Shanker and Kelly Zekas I can’t for the life of me remember how I heard about this book. I immediately put in a materials request with my library, but when it arrived I didn’t remember it at all. It does have hallmarks of something that would appeal to me, though: a setting of England in 1882, superpowers, romance, one of the authors mentioning Buffy in the dedication… It boded well.

I found it a bit disappointing at first, however, despite an independent and snarky heroine (Evelyn Wyndham, and is that a Buffy/Angel reference?) and dialogue that made me snicker right from the start. It just seemed so like “Pride and Prejudice with superpowers” that I began to wonder who was meant to be who. (“That charming fellow Mr. Kent, set up as a romantic rival to surly and brooding Sebastian Braddock, must be the Wickham surrogate!”) Too, the constant bickering between Evelyn and Sebastian, as they work together to rescue her sister the healer from a scientist who wants to experiment on her, did grate after a while.

However, in the end the book surprised me. Not just by deviating from the Pride and Prejudice mold or by imbuing people with unsuspected powers, but by taking the plot in a direction that absolutely made sense and which I absolutely did not see coming. A sequel (These Ruthless Deeds) has just been released and verily, I shall read it.

By: Michelle Smith