"John DeChancie - Castle 08 - Bride of the Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dechancie John)

"Yeah," Jeremy said. "The castle's like that. But just go with it."
"Go with it?"
"Yeah. Go with the nuttiness. Get into the flow, and it'll work for you. It always does for me."
Go with the flow? Max thought. And what choice did he have? Temporarily giving up any attempt at
making sense of all this, he sat back. "Anything you say, Doctor." He exhaled and looked out the
window.
After a moment Max said, "You're not a doctor, are you? You don't have any degree at all."
"Uh, not really, not in the real world," Jeremy confessed. "High school, and that's about it. But Osmirik,
the castle scribe, gave me an honorary doctorate. A real sheepskin. He said I deserved it."
"Oh, God," Max said. "It'll be okay, really."
"I'm okay," Max said. "I'm going to be okay. I'm fine. I just wish I could remember my mantra."
? CHAPTER SEVEN

"ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?"
Gene did a classic spit take, spraying beer across the picnic bench. Then he alternated guffawing and
choking.
"Only Snowclaw could say that in all seriousness," said Phil Kaufmann, wiping off his sleeve with a paper
napkin.
"Well, I am serious," Snowclaw said. "This is a party, right? We're supposed to have fun, whatever that
is. And since I really don't know much about human stuff, I was simply asking-"
"We know, we know," Gene said, having recovered. "And the answer is . . . no, we're not having a
whole hell of a lot of fun yet, but give it time, give it time."
"I'm enjoying the dancing girls," Kaufmann said.
The merrymakers, all male, watched approvingly as the dancing women continued their display of
terpsichorean skill. Music blared from a boom-box on the table. They were all perfunctorily clad, all
beautiful, and all untouchable, protected by invisible magical screens. Not that any of the men had made
advances; one of them had simply blundered too near one member of the troupe and had received a mild
shock.
The party tables were set up very near the portal entrance to this world, a world that was one of many of
its type: parklike, perpetually blue-skied, temperate, and safe. Expansive greenswards spread between
stately trees that resembled oaks, but were not.
Gene was bored. He took another swing of beer. It was good beer. Great, in fact. But he was still bored.
"What's the matter, chum?" Snowclaw asked, scratching his white, thick-furred belly.
"Hell, not a thing."
"Explain to me again this marriage stuff."
"Snowy, it all has to do with human mating behavior. You wouldn't understand."
"Well, I know about mating behavior. But from what I understand, you and Linda have already mated.
So-"
"Snowy, Jesus H. Christ."
Phil Kaufmann and a few of the other men suppressed a chuckle.
"Huh? What'd I say?"
"Nothing. You're right, we did, but now we're going to ritualize it. Celebrate it."
"Uh-huh." Snowclaw shook his huge, white ursine head. His yellow cat's-eyes looked oddly thoughtful. "I
think I understand." He thought some more, then shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Don't trouble yourself about it," Gene told him. "I'm human and I don't quite understand it. It's a cultural
thing."
"What's that mean?"
"Uh . . . Snowy, have another candle."
Gene picked up a beeswax candle, dipped it into a bowl of Thousand Island dressing, and offered it to
his nonhuman friend.