An Echo in the Bone by Diana Gabaldon Page B

Bells”—he shook himself, flipped over a few pages and started in again, doggedly.
    II. Morality
    A. Murder and Wrongful Death
    Naturally, we assume that the killing of someone for any reason short of self-defense, the protection of another, or the legitimate use of force in wartime is completely indefensible.
    He looked at that for a moment, muttered, “Pompous ass,” and ripped the page out of the notebook, crumpling it.
    Ignoring Mandy’s warbling rendition of “Gingle bells, Bamman smells, Wobin waid enegg!” h e scooped up the notebook and stomped across the hall to Brianna’s study.
    “Who am I to be gassing on about morality?” he demanded. She looked up from a sheet showing the disassembled components of a hydroelectric turbine, with the rather blank look that indicated she was aware of being spoken to, but had not detached her mind sufficiently from the subject matter as to realize who was speaking or what they were saying. Familiar with this phenomenon, he waited with mild impatience for her mind to let go of the turbine and focus on him.
    “ … gassing on … ?” she said, frowning. She blinked at him and her gaze sharpened. “Who are you gassing on to?”
    “Well …” He lifted the scribbled notebook, feeling suddenly shy. “The kids, sort of.”
    “You’re supposed to gas on to your kids about morality,” she said reasonably. “You’re their father; it’s your job.”
    “Oh,” he said, rather at a loss. “But—I’ve done a lot of the things I’m telling them not to.”
    Blood . Yeah, maybe it was protection of another. Maybe it wasn’t.
    She raised a thick, ruddy brow at him.
    “You never heard of benign hypocrisy? I thought they teach you stuff like that when you go to minister school. Since you mention gassing away about morality. That’s a minister’s job, too, isn’t it?”

    She stared at him, blue-eyed and waiting. He took a good, deep breath. Trust Bree, he thought wryly, to walk straight up to the elephant in the room and grab it by the trunk. She hadn’t said a word since their return about his near-ordination, or what he proposed to do now about his calling. Not a word, during their year in America, Mandy’s surgery, their decision to move to Scotland, the months of renovation after they’d bought Lallybroch—not until he’d opened the door. Once opened, of course, she’d walked straight through it, knocked him over, and planted a foot on his chest.
    “Yeah,” he said evenly. “It is,” and stared back.
    “Okay.” She smiled, very gently, at him. “So what’s the problem?”
    “Bree,” he said, and felt his heart stick in his scarred throat. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”
    She stood up then and put her hand on his arm, but before either of them could say more, the thump of small, bare feet came hop-skipping down the hall, and Jem’s voice came from the door of Roger’s study, saying, “Daddy?”
    “Here, pal,” he called back, but Brianna was already moving toward the door. Following, he found Jem—in his blue Superman pajamas, wet hair standing up in spikes—standing by his desk, examining the letter with interest.
    “What’s this?” he asked.
    “Wassis?” Mandy echoed faithfully, rushing over and scrambling up on the chair to see.
    “It’s a letter from your grandda,” Brianna replied, not missing a beat. She put a hand casually on the letter, obscuring most of the postscript, and pointed with the other at the last paragraph. “He sent you a kiss. See there?”
    A huge smile lighted Jem’s face.
    “He said he wouldn’t forget,” he said, contented.
    “Kissy, Grandda,” Mandy exclaimed, and bending forward so her mass of black curls fell over her face, planted a loud, “MWAH!” on the letter.
    Caught between horror and laughter, Bree snatched it up and wiped the moisture off it—but the paper, old as it was, was tough. “No harm done,” she said, and handed the letter casually to Roger. “Come on, what story are we reading