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“It tugs at me, filling me with the kind of seasick nostalgia that can hit you in the gut when you find an old concert ticket in your purse or an old coin machine ring you got down at the boardwalk on a day when you went searching for mermaids in the surf with your best friend.

That punch of nostalgia hits me now and I start to sink down on the sky-coloured quilt, feeling the nubby fabric under my fingers, familiar as the topography of my hand.”
― Brenna Ehrlich, Placid Girl

“What . . . fellow?â€� The wind was cool, but I could see sweat trickling down the back of Jamie’s neck, dampening his collar and plastering the linen between his shoulders.

Duff didn’t answer immediately. A look of speculation flickered in his small, deep-set eyes.

“Don’t think about it, Duff,� Roger said, softly, but with great assurance. “I can reach ye from here with an oar, ken?�

“Aye?� Duff glanced thoughtfully from Jamie, to Roger, and then to me. “Aye, reckon ye might. But allowin� for the sake for argyment as how you can swim, MacKenzie—and even that Mr. Fraser might keep afloat—I dinna think that’s true of the lady, is it? Skirts and petticoats . . .� He shook his head, pursing thin lips in speculation as he looked at me. “Go to the bottom like a stone, she would.�

Peter shifted ever so slightly, bringing his feet under him.

“Claire?� Jamie said. I saw his fingers curl tight round the oars, and heard the note of strain in his voice. I sighed and drew the pistol out from under the coat across my lap.

“Right,â€� I said. “Which one shall I shoot?”
― Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross

“There is something innately pitiful about a man in vambraces spewing up his breakfast.”
― Jacqueline Carey, Kushiel's Dart