"Cecilia Dart-Thornton - The Bitterbynde 02 - The Lady of the Sorrows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dart-Thornton Cecilia)

The girl who sheltered with the carlin at White Down Rory felt reborn. All seemed so new and so
strange now, she had to keep reminding herself over and over that the miraculous healing of her face and
voice had indeed happened; to keep staring into the looking-glass, touching those pristine features whose
skin was still tender, and saying over and over, until her throat rasped: "Speech is mine. Speech is mine."
But she would discover her hands moving, as she spoke.
Surrounding the unfamiliar face, the hair fell thick and heavy, the color of gold. Lamplight struck red
highlights in the silken tresses. As to whether all this was beauty or not, she was unsure; it was all too
much to take in at once. For certain, she was no longer uglyтАФand that, it seemed for the moment, was all
that mattered. Yet there was no rejoicing, for she lived in fear, every minute, that it would all be taken
away, or that it was some illusion of Maeve's looking-glassтАФbut the same image repeated itself in placid
water and polished bronze, and it was possible, if not to accept the new visage, at least to think of it as a
presentable mask that covered the old, ugly oneтАФher true countenance.
"I kenned you were mute as soon as you fell through my door," said the carlin, Maeve One-Eye.
"Don't underestimate me, colleen. Your hands were struggling to shape some signsтАФwithout effect. And
it was obvious what you were after, so I lost no timeтАФno point in dilly-dallying when there's a job to be
done. But 'tis curious that the spell on your voice was lifted off with the sloughed tissue of your face. If I
am not mistaken you were made voiceless by something eldritch, while the paradox poisoning is from a
lorraly plant. Very odd. I must look into it. Meanwhile, do not let sunlight strike your face for a few
days. That new tissue will have to harden up a bit first, 'tis still soft and easily damaged."
"Tom Coppins looks after me, don't you, Tom?"
The quick, cinnamon-haired boy, who was often in and out of the cottage, nodded.
"And he will look after you as well, my colleen. Now, start using your voice bit by bit, not too much,
and when 'tis strong you can tell me everything: past, present, and future. No, the glass is not eldritch.
Come away from itтАФthere is too much sunlight bleeding in through the windowpanes. And there's shang
on the wayтАФthe Coillach knows what that would do to your skin!"
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Not a day, not an hour, not a moment passed without thoughts of Thorn. Passion tormented the
transformee. She whispered his name over and over at night as sleep crept upon her, hoping to dream of
him, but hoping in vain. It seemed to her that he was fused with her blood, within her very marrow. Ever
and anon her thought was distracted by images of his countenance, and conjecture as to his whereabouts
and well-being. Longing gnawed relentlessly, like a rat within, but as time passed and she became
accustomed to the pain, its acuteness subsided to a constant dull anguish.
Late in the evening of the third day, the howling airs of Nethilmis stilled. Maeve dozed in her
rocking-chair by the fire with a large plated lizard sleeping on her lap. Imrhien was gazing at her own
reflection by candlelight, twin flames flickering in her eyes. Tom Coppins was curled up in a small heap
on his mattress in a corner. All was still, when came a sound of rushing wind and a whirring of great
wings overhead, and a sad, lonely call.
Quickly, Maeve roused and looked up. She muttered something.
Not long afterward, a soft sound could be heard outside the cottage, like a rustling of plumage.
Maeve lifted the lizard down to the hearthrug and went to open the door. A girl slipped in silently and
remained in the shadows with the carlin. Her face was pale, her gown and the long fall of hair were
jet-black. She wore a cloak of inky feathers, white-scalloped down the front. A long red jewel shone,
bright as fresh blood, on her brow. Maeve spoke with her, in low tones that could not be overheard, then
began to busy herself with preparations, laying out bandages and pots on the table.
The carlin's activities were hidden in the gloom beyond the firelight, but a sudden, whistling, inhuman
cry of pain escaped the newcomer, waking Tom Coppins. Maeve had set straight a broken limb and was
now binding it with splints. When all was finished, the swanmaiden lay quivering in the farthest corner
from the fire, hidden beneath the folds of her feather-cloak.
"Pallets everywhere," muttered Maeve, leaving the dirty pots on the table. "I shall have to take a
bigger cottage next year."