type tray

Remember when....

…this photo of a wee replica of an 18th century printing press was accidentally posted on twitter by JGS?  And how many of us squealed with excitement?  

And now to know that it really will happen, and that MBR is writing the episode, Matt, the one who brought Outlander to the attention of the Tall Stacks folks.  And to know that we will see Claire walking in Edinburgh:

 “I took a deep breath, pushed back my hair, and marched into the shadows of Carfax Close.  It was a longish, winding close, and the printshop was at the foot. There were thriving businesses and tenements on either side, but I had no attention to spare for anything beyond the neat white sign that hung by the door.”  

And then she will see this sign:

Then:  

“I shoved open the door and walked in.
There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.
The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.
“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”

And then we will see the greatest reunion in literary and television history (IMHO)

“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”  He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.
He stared at me without speaking. A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything.”

I can only imagine!

(Excerpts From: Diana Gabaldon. “Voyager.” iBooks.)

In honor of the scene Sam is most looking forward to:

http://veraadxer.tumblr.com - for the fantastic artwork!

I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps.

Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.
There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.
The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.
“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”
“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”
He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.
He stared at me without speaking. A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything.
It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The lines surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened that air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm.
I walked through the flap in the counter, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat.
“When did you break your nose?”
The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly.
“About three minutes after I last saw ye—Sassenach.”
There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin.
He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered.
“You’re real,” he whispered.

Excerpt From: Diana Gabaldon. “Voyager.” iBooks.

Things

When I was younger, I had a tin box that housed all of my treasures: pieces of quartz, geodes, rubber balls, old coins. This “mystery box” must’ve been a common object among kids because my husband had a similar one. It seemed sad that all of these little creatures were hidden away in storage. I figured that it’d be nice to let them out again.

Our empty wooden type tray, with its many compartments, seemed like the perfect place to house these trinkets. Eventually, we’d like to cover it with glass and turn it into a table.