Thanks (as always! <g>) to Karen Henry, for pointing out that today (well, April 21st) is the birthday of Amanda Claire Hope MacKenzie (aka Mandy).
BORN, to Captain Roger MacKenzie of Fraser’s Ridge and his lady, a girl, on the twenty-first of April. Child and Mother are reported in good Health, the Child’s name given as Amanda Claire Hope MacKenzie.
Roger had never felt so terrified as he did when his newborn daughter was placed in his arms for the first time. Minutes old, skin tender and perfect as an orchid’s, she was so delicate he feared he would leave fingerprints on her—but so alluring that he had to touch her, drawing the back of his knuckle gently, so gently, down the perfect curve of her fat little cheek, stroking the black cobweb silk of her hair with an unbelieving forefinger.
(ABOSAA, chapter 114, “Amanda”)
So, in honor of the occasion….
EXCERPT from A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT, Copyright © 2026 Diana Gabaldon
The front door was open, and Brianna heard Mandy’s shrieks—and her father’s Gaelic shouting—coming from the office before she’d reached the porch.
“What the Sam Hill is going on in here?” she said, skidding to a stop in the office doorway. Mandy was crouched in a ball on top of the desk, her grandfather crouched protectively in front of her, armed with a bottle of whisky.
“Fuirich air ais!” her father said, rising urgently to motion her back. “Dinna get in its way!”
“It…?” She glanced hurriedly around, but saw no threat. Then the snake coiled in the corner moved like lightning and shot between her legs before she could scream. Her father grabbed Mandy off the desk and clutched her tightly, still holding the bottle for defense.
“Gaah,” Brianna said. Her heart was thundering, but she’d had a quick glimpse of the snake’s tail as it swarmed past her. She swallowed, and took a deep breath. She put out a hand to her father, who reluctantly relinquished Mandy into her arms.
“Is it gone, a nighean?”
“Yes. It went out the front door. It’s probably headed for Georgia.” Mandy had stopped shrieking, but was shaking and sobbing.
“It’s all right, Baby,” Brianna said, patting her daughter and hoping she sounded reassuring. “It’s not a bad snake.”
“’Es it is!” Mandy’s arms and legs were wrapped around her mother.
“Ye’re sure?” Her father’s voice was steady, but his hand was shaking and the bottle clinked as he set it back on its tray.
“It’s a gopher snake, Da,” she said, as soothingly as possible. “I told you about gopher snakes.”
“It rattled at us,” he said, glancing at the empty corner with dislike. “Did it no, a leanabh?” he asked Mandy, who nodded emphatically. She raised her hand and waved it in violent circles under Brianna’s nose.
“Wattle, wattle, wattle!”
“It’s a gopher snake,” Brianna repeated calmly. “My fath—” she caught herself with a lurch of the heart, “A neighbor we used to have would take me out to look for frogs and lizards and snakes, and he taught me how to catch them—and what they look like,” she added, with an arched brow at her present father, who had gone slightly pale at her slip.
“Mmphm,” he said, indicating reluctant willingness to concede her superior knowledge. “It did rattle, though,” he added, rather accusingly.
“Well, they do,” she acknowledged, setting Mandy down on the desk again. “They imitate rattlesnakes, to scare off anyone who might hurt them. They coil up, just like rattlers—” she nodded to her father, “and they scrape the scales on their tails back and forth so it sounds very much like a rattlesnake; you have to look twice to be sure there aren’t actually any rattles. They hiss, too,” she said, and moved by mischief, hissed through her front teeth, so convincingly that Mandy screamed again and her father went white and grabbed the little girl.
“It’s all right, mo gradh,” he said, and sounded very reassuring. He looked a bit less reassured himself, but she saw him put his agitation aside and fettle himself for the next emergency.
“Where’s the wee lad?” he asked, nodding matter-of-factly at the wet patches on her bodice.
“With his new uncle,” she said. “Getting acquainted.”
That wiped the last remnant of fear off her father’s face. He still looked wary—and no wonder, she thought—but his eyes had warmth now, and a sense of his joy touched her skin.
“Who’s Sam Hill?” Mandy asked, frowning.
Click to visit my official Book Ten webpage for information on A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT, and to read more excerpts from it.
Images of framed snake art and a large snake in the house were both taken by me, Diana Gabaldon.
This excerpt was also posted on my official Facebook page on Wednesday, April 22, 2026.
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Rather to William’s surprise, Fraser appeared for departure clad in a faded kilt with a ragged hem, this worn with a hunting shirt shadowed with ancient blood-stains, and a belt from which depended an assortment of weaponry and a small goatskin bag whose purpose was a mystery. Tartan stockings on his feet, and a cartridge box hung from a strap over his shoulder completed the ensemble.
Sunday, December 21, 2025
In a comment on my Facebook page, Rene R. had a question:
Ahhhhhhghhhhhhh, is more or less what’s in my mind, to be honest. Something went wrong with my password to my Facebook page, and I’ve been fighting@#$%@ Facebook to get it back for the last three or four days.
Today/Tonight is the Second Sunday of Advent, and the candle for this Sunday is usually called “Peace”. In the winter season, the world seems to turn more slowly, and the nights grow longer, lending us a quiet space in which to think, to pray, or only be.
Today/Tonight is the First Sunday of Advent. Tonight’s candle is usually called “Hope”—though it’s also called “The Candle of Prophecy” in some circles. Regardless of name, our purpose is to turn away from the Dark—to let discord, fear, violence and sadness vanish like dry leaves in the flame of our hearts, that hope may rise with the quiet light.
The organizers searched high and low for another hotel, but nothing was available that would fit a conference of this size, where most of the attendees stay -in- the hotel throughout the conference.
The SiWC is run by a non-profit foundation—meaning that one year funds the next, but there’s not a lot left over—and in this case, it means that the organizers have a $300,000 loss, which will need to be rebuilt in order for next year’s conference to happen.