This week on Outlander, Jamie and Claire are miserable. Turns out Paris isn’t much fun when you’re spending time trying to avert the next Jacobite rising.

In addition to her intermittent morning sickness, Claire is struggling with the fact that she’s now stuck in a more traditional set of roles for women, and she’s bored out of her skull. The various dresses around the room during her card date with Louise de Rohan says it all—she’s the only person present who isn’t buried in an avalanche of ruffles, lace, and embroidery. Honestly, how does this woman even move?

Poor Mary Hawkins, who’s afraid to marry a Frenchman and—according to Claire’s sudden flashback—will get stuck with literal demon Jack Randall. Maybe the genetic cards will still come up Frank if she marries the younger Randall brother, instead?

Between getting stuck gossiping at tea, the looming threat of a still-living Black Jack, and the Frasers’ months-long bedroom drought, Claire’s so out of sorts she can’t appreciate that she’s able to pull of this shade of mustard yellow, which is extremely impressive.

Even yet another jaunty riding habit-inspired ensemble isn’t enough to cheer her up. (I just cannot get over how dashing these look on her.) No, that requires some time spent sniffing urine under the skeptical eye of a stern nun.

Meanwhile, Jamie is spending his every moment dashing between the wine business and Versailles and Bonnie Prince Charlie’s preferred meeting place, that tiresome brothel. He is tired of scheming and also he is just tired. And speaking of the Stuart heir, his combination of whimsical, not-quite-right tailoring and very wild eyeballs continues to make him seem like the world’s worst bet.

Give credit where it’s due—the menacing Comte St. Germain clearly has a tailor with a better eye for projecting wealth and power.

Claire feels a lot better once she gets promoted from emptying chamberpots to lancing pus-filled wounds down at the charity hospital, and Jamie pulls himself out of his pouting about his wife’s new job when Mother Hildebrand, musical genius, helps them crack a code. In her practical, stripped-down gown and slightly viscera-smeared apron, Claire looks like herself again—even if that peach is perhaps not the most obvious sickroom attire.

She’s so happy to see Jamie back in fine form that she can’t quite bring herself to tell him about Black Jack, even though he’s bound to go confront the plotting Duke of Sandringham at any moment, and then it’ll all come spilling out.

Last thought: They sure don’t make robes like they used to.