Dragonfly In Amber

341 Pages·2010·1.41 MB·English

by  Gabaldon Diana

Contents
Title page
Dedication
Praise for Dragonfly in Amber
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Three
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Four
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Five
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part Six
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Part Seven
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Books by Diana Gabaldon
Excerpt from Voyager
Copyright Page
For my husband,
Doug Watkins—
In thanks for the Raw Material
“THE PAGES PRACTICALLY TURN THEMSELVES…Gabaldon is a born
storyteller…She writes a prose that is brisk, lucid, good-humored and often
felicitous. Gabaldon is obviously just over the threshold of a long and prolific
career.”
—Arizona Republic
Praise for
DRAGONFLY IN AMBER
and Diana Gabaldon “I LOVED EVERY PAGE…
DIANA GABALDON WEAVES A POWERFUL TALE
LAYERED IN HISTORY AND MYTH.”
—Nora Roberts
“MARVELOUS…IT IS A LARGE CANVAS THAT GABALDON PAINTS,
FILLED WITH STRONG PASSIONS AND DERRING-DO.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“COMPULSIVELY READABLE…INTRIGUING…Gabaldon offers a fresh
and offbeat historical view.”
—Publishers Weekly
“ENGAGING TIME TRAVEL…AN APPEALING MODERN HEROINE AND
A MAGNETIC ROMANTIC HERO…a most entertaining mix of history and
fantasy whose author, like its heroine, exhibits a winning combination of vivid
imagination and good common sense.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“BRILLIANT, ASTONISHING…A RIVETING HISTORICAL NOVEL THAT
RIVALS THE BEST.”
—Rave Reviews
Acknowledgments
The author’s thanks and best wishes to: the three Jackies (Jackie Cantor, Jackie
LeDonne, and my mother), guardian angels of my books; the four Johns (John
Myers, John E. Simpson, Jr., John Woram, and John Stith) for Constant
Readership, Scottish miscellanea, and general enthusiasm; Janet
McConnaughey, Margaret J. Campbell, Todd Heimarck, Deb and Dennis
Parisek, Holly Heinel, and all the other LitForumites who do not begin with the
letter J—especially Robert Riffle, for plantago, French epithets, ebony
keyboards, and his ever-discerning eye; Paul Solyn, for belated nasturtiums,
waltzes, copperplate handwriting, and botanical advice; Margaret Ball, for
references, useful suggestions, and great conversation; Fay Zachary, for lunch;
Dr. Gary Hoff, for medical advice and consultation (he had nothing to do with
the descriptions of how to disembowel someone); the poet Barry Fogden, for
translations from the English; Labhriunn MacIan, for Gaelic imprecations and
the generous use of his most poetic name; Kathy Allen-Webber, for general
assistance with the French (if anything is still in the wrong tense, it’s my fault);
Vonda N. McIntyre, for sharing tricks of the trade; Michael Lee West, for
wonderful comments on the text, and the sort of phone conversations that make
my family yell, “Get off the phone! We’re starving!”; Michael Lee’s mother, for
reading the manuscript, looking up periodically to ask her critically acclaimed
daughter, “Why don’t you write something like this?”; and Elizabeth Buchan,
for queries, suggestions, and advice—the effort involved was nearly as
enormous as the help provided.
PROLOGUE
I woke three times in the dark predawn. First in sorrow, then in joy, and at the
last, in solitude. The tears of a bone-deep loss woke me slowly, bathing my face
like the comforting touch of a damp cloth in soothing hands. I turned my face to
the wet pillow and sailed a salty river into the caverns of grief remembered, into
the subterranean depths of sleep.
I came awake then in fierce joy, body arched bowlike in the throes of physical
joining, the touch of him fresh on my skin, dying along the paths of my nerves as
the ripples of consummation spread from my center. I repelled consciousness,
turning again, seeking the sharp, warm smell of a man’s satisfied desire, in the
reassuring arms of my lover, sleep.
The third time I woke alone, beyond the touch of love or grief. The sight of the
stones was fresh in my mind. A small circle, standing stones on the crest of a
steep green hill. The name of the hill is Craigh na Dun; the fairies’ hill. Some
say the hill is enchanted, others say it is cursed. Both are right. But no one
knows the function or the purpose of the stones.
Except me.