Dragonfly in Amber by Diana Gabaldon Page A

enough for another try at the window. He pushed until he could feel his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt, but at last, with a rending screech, the window gave way, and a reviving draft of cool air whooshed in through the six-inch gap he'd created.
    "God, that's better." He fanned himself exaggeratedly, grinning at Brianna. "Now, shall we get on with it?"
    She handed him the torch, and stepped back. "How about you find the boxes, and I'll sort through them? And what's a rat satire?"
    "Coward," he said, bending to rummage beneath the tarpaulin. "A rat satire is an old Scottish custom; if you had rats or mice in your house or your barn, you could make them go away by composing a poem—or you could sing it—telling the rats how poor the eating was where they were, and how good it was elsewhere. You told them where to go, and how to get there, and presumably, if the satire was good enough—they'd go."
    He pulled out a carton labeled JACOBITES, MISCELLANEOUS, and carried it to the table, singing,
    "Ye rats, ye are too many,
    If ye would dine in plenty,
    Ye mun go, ye mun go."
    Lowering the box with a thump, he bowed in response to Brianna's giggling and turned back to the stacks, continuing in stentorian voice.
    "Go to Campbell's garden,
    Where nae cat stands warden,
    And the kale, it grows green.
    Go and fill your bellies,
    Dinna stay and gnaw my wellies—
    Go, ye rats, go!"
    Brianna snorted appreciatively. "Did you just make that up?"
    "Of course." Roger deposited another box on the table with a flourish. "A good rat satire must always be original." He cast a glance at the serried ranks of cartons. "After that performance, there shouldn't be a rat within miles of this place."
    "Good." Brianna pulled a jackknife from her pocket and slit the tape that sealed the topmost carton. "You should come do one at the bed-and-breakfast place; Mama says she's sure there's mice in the bathroom. Something chewed on her soap case."
    "God knows what it would take to dislodge a mouse capable of eating bars of soap; far beyond my feeble powers, I expect." He rolled a tattered round hassock out from behind a teetering stack of obsolete encyclopedias, and plumped down next to Brianna. "Here, you take the parish registers, they're a bit easier to read."
    They worked through the morning in amiable companionship, turning up occasional interesting passages, the odd silverfish, and recurrent clouds of dust, but little of value to the project at hand.
    "We'd better stop for lunch soon," Roger said at last. He felt a strong reluctance to go back into the house, where he would once more be at Fiona's mercy, but Brianna's stomach had begun to growl almost as loudly as his own.
    "Okay. We can do some more after we eat, if you're not worn out." Brianna stood and stretched herself, her curled fists almost reaching the rafters of the old garage. She wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans, and ducked between the stacks of boxes.
    "Hey!" She stopped short, near the door. Roger, following her, was brought up sharp, his nose almost touching, the back of her head.
    "What is it?" he asked. "Not another rat?" He noted with approval that the sun lit her thick single braid with glints of copper and gold. With a small golden nimbus of dust surrounding her, and the light of noon silhouetting her long-nosed profile, he thought she looked quite medieval; Our Lady of the Archives.
    "No. Look at this, Roger!" She pointed at a cardboard carton near the middle of a stack. On the side, in the Reverend's strong black hand, was a label with the single word "Randall."
    Roger felt a stab of mingled excitement and apprehension. Brianna's excitement was unalloyed.
    "Maybe that's got the stuff we're looking for!" she exclaimed. "Mama said it was something my father was interested in; maybe he'd already asked the Reverend about it."
    "Could be." Roger forced down the sudden feeling of dread that had struck him at sight of the name. He knelt to extract the box from its