Ian didn’t say anything, but made a slight adjustment of posture that gave Jamie his full attention.

“Ken, when Brianna brought us the books,” Jamie began carefully, “there was the strange one for the bairns, and a romance for me about … well, fanciful things, to say the least. And a medical book for your auntie.”

“Aye, I’ve maybe seen that one,” Ian said thoughtfully. “A big blue one, very thick? Ye could kill a rat wi’ that one.”

“That’s the one, aye. But the lass brought along a book for herself.” He hesitated; he’d never spoken to Ian about Claire’s life away from him. “It was written by a man named Randall. A historian.”

Ian’s head turned sharply toward him.

“Randall. Was his name Frank Randall?”

“Aye, it was.” Jamie felt as though Ian had rabbit-punched him, and shook his head to clear it. “How—did Bree tell ye about him? Her—her—”

“Her other father? Aye. Years ago.” He made a small motion with one hand, disturbing the dark. “Doesna matter.”

“Aye, it does.” He paused for a moment; he’d never talked about Randall with anyone save Claire. But he had to, so he did.

“I kent about him, from the first day I met Claire—though I thought he was dead, and in fact, he was, but …” He cleared his throat, and Ian reached into his pack and handed him a battered flask. Dark as it was, he felt the crude fleur-de-lis under his thumb. It was Ian Mòr’s old soldier’s flask, which his friend had kept from their time in France as young mercenaries, and the feel of it steadied him.

“The thing is, a bhalaich, he kent about me, too.” He uncorked the flask and drank from it; watered brandy, but it helped. “Claire told him, when she … went back. She thought I was dead at Culloden, and—”

Ian made a small noise that might have been amusement.

“Aye,” Jamie said dryly. “I meant to be. But ye dinna always get to choose what happens to ye, do you?”

“True enough. But Brianna told me her father was dead—so … he was, he is … really dead?”

“Well, I’d thought so. But the bugger wrote a damn book, didn’t he? The one Brianna brought wi’ her—to remember him by. I read it.”

Ian rubbed a thumb across his chin; Jamie could hear the scratch of the bristles, and it made his own chin itch.

“What the devil did he say in it?”

Jamie sighed and saw his breath, white for an instant in the dark. The moon had faded out of sight behind the clouds. They couldn’t stay out here long; Ian needed sleep before the journey, and Jamie’s bad hand was telling him that rain was coming.

“It’s about Scots, ken? In America. What they—we—did, what we’ll do, in the Revolution. The thing is … aye, well. There are a good many men named Jamie Fraser in Scotland, and I’m sure there are plenty here, too.”