“I’ll take it,” I said, scooping up the plate and taking a fork from the yellow jar on the table. The metal was warm and the smell divine. “Thank you, girls. Keep the food warm until Mr. Fraser or I come back, will you?”

It was very thoughtful of Jamie to call on the corporal with a chamber pot, I thought, amused. That should go some way toward easing his mind. I paused outside the quilt that covered the surgery door, listening to be sure I wouldn’t interrupt Mr. Jackson at a delicate moment.

The quilt was red-side out. I couldn’t recall whether I’d pinned it up that way yesterday or not. It was a double-sided quilt that Jamie had bought me in Salem: two heavy woven wool pieces of cloth, elaborately fastened together with a beautiful quilting stitch that curled into leafy circles and zigzagged down the edges. The red cloth was the color of old brandy—or blood, as Jamie had observed more than once—and the other side was a deep golden brown, dyed with onion skins and saffron. It was my habit to put the quilt up red-side out when I was conferring privately with a patient or doing something embarrassingly intimate to them, as an indication to the household that they ought not to burst in without knocking.

I heard a last trickle, a deep sigh from Corporal Jackson, and the metallic scrape of a tin chamber pot sliding across wood, then the noise of Jamie—presumably—sliding it under the counter.

“I thank you, sir,” Jackson said, courteous but wary.

“Well, ye’re no my prisoner,” Jamie said, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “But ye do seem to be my guest. As such, of course ye’re more than welcome to stay for as long as ye like—or need to. But I canna help but think ye might have other places ye’d rather be, once my wife is pleased wi’ your leg.”

Mr. Jackson made a brief sound in which surprise and amusement were mingled in equal proportion, and there was a rustling noise and the creak of my rocking chair as Jamie evidently made himself comfortable.

“I’m mos’ grateful for your hospitality, sir,” Jackson said. “And your wife’s care of me.”

“She’s a good healer,” Jamie said. “Ye’ll do fine. But your leg’s broken, so ye’re no walking out on your own. I’ll take ye in my wagon where ye want to go, so soon as Claire says ye’re fettled.”

Jackson seemed a bit taken aback by this, for he didn’t answer at once, but made a sort of low humming noise.

“I’m not your prisoner, you say,” he said, carefully.

“No. I’ve nay quarrel wi’ you, nor reason to do ye harm.”

“You and your men seem to think otherwise yesterday,” the corporal pointed out, a cautious tone in his voice.

“Ach, that.” Jamie was silent for a moment, then asked, with no apparent emotion other than mild curiosity, “Do ye ken Captain Stevens’s intent in calling upon me?”