"Gardner Dozois & Michael Swanwick - Ancestral Voices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

when your father comes in to kiss you goodnight, you can open them and surprise
him. WonтАЩt that be fun?тАЭ
The child nodded slowly, then twisted a bit to dig her cheek into the pillows.
тАЬSweet dreams,тАЭ Mrs. Kingsley murmured.
She went downstairs to confront the father.
Iago came padding out from the kitchen as she threw a jacket over her thin
shoulders against the terrible cold outside. He stood by her side, anxious with
doggish worries of his own, as she flung the front door open. Desmond stood on
the stoop, one arm flung around his roadhouse floozyтАЩs neck, grappling vaguely for
her breasts, and the other digging through his pocketsтАФwith equal
incompetenceтАФin search of the door key. He gaped up stupidly at her.
тАЬHow dare you?тАЭ she whispered, so as not to wake the child. тАЬYour own
daughter is in this house!тАЭ The snow was falling more thickly now, slanting down
fast and tightly together, filling the air. The air was so full of snowflakes you could
choke on them. If you listened carefully, you could hear them hit, it was so quiet. A
whispery, slithery sound.
Desmond released the woman. He looked directly into Alma KingsleyтАЩs eyes,
possibly the first time he had done so since arriving at Maple Hill Farm. тАЬYou
sanctimonious old bag,тАЭ he said quietly, also unwilling to disturb the child.
тАЬStephanie died over a year ago. And you know something? A year is a long time to
go without. YouтАЩd know that yourself, if you could remember that far backтАж.тАЭ
The floozyтАФher hair was that hideous aniline red that positively shrieked its
artificialityтАФhung back, embarrassed. Or maybe not; she gaped up at them from the
car, as vacant-faced as a cow. Mrs. Kingsley didnтАЩt spare her a second glance.
тАЬI will not tolerate having the morals of a child corrupted within my house!тАЭ
She moved to slam the door shut in his face.
The father caught the door with one hand, and effortlessly held it open. He
was a short, heavy man, with a dirty little fringe of beard. About as far from the
Kingsley type as you could get, but a strong creature nevertheless. For an instant,
she thought he was going to actually strike her, could almost feel the pain, the old
bones cracking under porcelain skinтАж. But he didnтАЩt. He just grinned, a mean,
drunken grin. тАЬI donтАЩt like bringing Jenny up here twice a year,тАЭ he said. тАЬI only did
it for StephanieтАЩs sake, when she was alive, and now for Jenny. She likes being on
your farm. But IтАЩll tell you thisтАФeither you let us in or this is the fucking last time
youтАЩll ever see the child again.тАЭ
She stood motionless in the doorway, losing heat to the out-of-doors while
Desmond leered up at her. The snow was gathering already, a light powder-sugar
frosting on the bare and frozen ground. The wind was already sweeping it to and fro.
The air was cold on her face and it seemed to her that so long as she didnтАЩt move,
she could hold back the future, keep from ever having to move, keep from slipping
into a situation where she had lost control, where she was defeated before she even
began.
At her heel, the dog whined plaintively. тАЬHush, Iago,тАЭ she said automatically.
She moved aside.


In the morning, she set out four plates for breakfastтАФthe good Spode china,
too, as pointed a bit of formality as it was possible to give a guest. She considered
turning on the big plug-in radio on the kitchen counter, all the company she had most
mornings as she cooked a solitary breakfast for herself, but there was a delicious