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    Past Prologue
    Past Prologue
    Past Prologue
    Ebook53 pages54 minutes

    Past Prologue

    By Diana Gabaldon and Steve Berry

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Where should we go? All that we knew is gone, and all that we have is each other…

    In this short story from the thrilling anthology MatchUp, bestselling authors Diana Gabaldon and Steve Berry—along with their popular series characters Jamie Fraser and Cotton Malone—team up for the first time ever.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster
    Release dateJul 23, 2019
    ISBN9781982139582
    Past Prologue
    Author

    Diana Gabaldon

    DIANA GABALDON is the author of the award-winning, #1 New York Times best-selling Outlander novels, described by Salon magazine as “the smartest historical sci-fi adventure-romance story ever written by a science Ph.D.” She serves as co-producer and advisor for the Starz network Outlander series based on her novels.

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    Reviews for Past Prologue

    4/5

    6 ratings2 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Loved it. A total tread for an Outlander fan who also loves action and mystery novels.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 3/5
      It pains me to give a story with Jamie Fraser in it only 3 stars but this was just an okay story. The combination of Cotton Malone and Outlander characters because the investigator slipped through a stone circle in time was just - odd. Cotton is visiting Ardsmuir Castle for a book sale when a walk on the moors takes him through time to 1755. Jamie is one of the prison gang working on the moors. It's only a short story so I won't give any more away, but it didn't work for me.

    Book preview

    Past Prologue - Diana Gabaldon

    PAST PROLOGUE

    I LOVE SCOTLAND.

    Always have.

    Something about its collage of gray and green enchants me. I especially love its castles, and through the car window I study Ardsmuir, which looms out of the northern Scottish moor like something God himself hacked from the ancient rock. I have to admit, a less-welcoming pile I have never seen but, after all, centuries ago it had once been a prison. I’ve been driven straight from the Inverness airport and climb out of the car into a bone-chilling combination of driving rain and bitter north wind.

    Mr. Malone, comes a shout faintly over the roar of the storm.

    I turn to see a man hurrying toward me across the flagged-stone courtyard, a red golf umbrella precariously clutched in one hand, a flashlight, or an electric torch as they would say here, in the other. I hustle toward the shelter of the umbrella, but not before retrieving my travel bag from the driver and leaving five pounds for a tip.

    So pleased you made it, Mr. Malone. The man with the umbrella shoves the flashlight under one arm in order to free up a hand for shaking. I’m John MacRae.

    Call me Cotton. I duck under the umbrella. And for God’s sake, let’s get out of this mess. Reminds me of south Georgia and the storms we get there.

    Inside, the walls are more of the forbidding granite from outside, only here they serve as a matte for clusters of swords, shields, and stags’ heads that dot the entrance hall. Thankfully, the roar of the wind and rain is gone. I set down my travel bag. MacRae hurries to take my overcoat, which I surrender, reluctantly, not accustomed to a manservant.

    The gentlemen—and lady, MacRae adds with a smile, are all in the drawing room with Mr. Chubb. Let me show you the way, and I’ll have your bag sent up to your room. There’s a fire waiting.

    I follow MacRae and enter the drawing room, a large comfortable space with dark-stained overhead beams and heavy furniture. More animal heads stare down from the walls. An unusual globe with a hollow interior catches my trained eye, its open ribs marking latitude and longitude. As advertised, a robust, crackling blaze, one suitable for roasting an ox, burns in the stone hearth. I make for it, barely pausing to shake hands with my host for the evening, Malcolm Chubb. I’ve crossed paths with Chubb before at various book auctions in London, Paris, and Edinburgh. During those times the Scot had been wearing a stylish Savile Row suit. Now he looks like a Christmas tree, ablaze in red-and-green tartan from waist to knees, and sporting a drape of the same fabric over one shoulder held in place with a striking bronze brooch.

    Wretched evening, my host says in apology, before thrusting a glass of single malt into my hand. We didn’t think you’d make it, but we’re so pleased that you did.

    I’m not much of a drinker, barely touching the stuff. But I know how the Scots feel about their malt. So I hold the glass up against the light and admire its golden murkiness. Then I allow the bitter liquid to lay a comfortable burn down my gullet, which thaws me enough to take stock of the room. A dozen or so booksellers and collectors loiter about, drinking more whisky, nibbling morsels from trays servants pass around, chatting to each other. A couple of them—a man named Arkwright that I know, and a woman I don’t—doubtless the lady MacRae had mentioned earlier—are standing in front of a cloth-draped table at the far side, admiring the dozen or so books displayed within their velvet nests.

    Strangers always raise my

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