"MacAvoy,.R.A.-.Black.Dragon.2.-.Twisting.The.Rope.e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

hands.
"Are you regretting it, Martha?" The question was wondering, and Long folded his
hands together (the fingers extending past the opposite wrists), waiting for her
reply.
Martha frowned, eyes unfocused. A moment later she snorted in most unladylike
manner. "Regretting it? I am not. Not a bit of it. I knew there would be
momentsЧthat there would be sparksЧwith a group of musicians as able and as
different as we are. People don't do good work if they don't care about
thingsЧsometimes the silliest thingsЧ and there's no musician like a traditional
musician for having untraditional opinions. What counts is the music we've
made."
She rose from the bed. Her wraparound skirt with tiny sailboats on it was not
straight. There was a flat spot at the side of her head where her newly bobbed
and waved hair had touched the headboard. But her blue eyes caught the window
light like circles of sky and everyone in the room listened when she spoke, even
Marty, her granddaughter.
"And I got what I wanted there, all right. We've made our little bit of magic.
In Chicago we caught fire, and then, last night, in San Francisco"Чshe scratched
her head, a small smile softening her mouthЧ"we were up toЕ past our own
limits."
An answering smile came from Elen Evans. She felt her shoulders sink down and
realized just how tense she had been, until now. She met Long's eyes and
wondered if he understood the overwhelming importance of the thing Martha had
just said. To people like herself, and Elen, and even St. Ives, who simply had
to play this music, whether people wanted to hear it or notЕ
Long was different. He was not a musician. Certainly he had no Celtic
background, to spark his interest in the history of it. One never knew why, with
Long, for his face showed nothing. That was an advantage, she guessed, in a road
manager. Maybe it was easier for a Chinese, or Indonesian orЕ What was he,
anyway?
Besides dotty over Martha. Elen Evans put her face against the box of her triple
harp to hide her grin.
"For some of us the limits are easy to find!" It was Pсdraig again, and the
words were bitter. Before Elen could move from behind her harp to answer him, he
was out of the room and gone.
She followed, scooping up her big net bag and drop ping the piano-tuning wrench
into it. The bag swung and struck against the dresser with a sound of cracking
wood. She cursed the thing with a calm and placid curse as the door closed
behind her.
"Oh, dear," said Martha, sitting down hard in the other wicker chair. Long met
her eye. "We haven't heard the last of this," she said. "From St. Ives, I mean."
"I'm not having any fun yet," Marty announced, coming back to Mayland Long's
lap. "I just thought I'd tell you, Daddo. In case."
Martha gave a rather brittle laugh and threw the Kleenex box across the room.
The ocean was divided; as far as a hundred yards out from the Santa Cruz pier it
was a warm jade color, while from an abrupt line at that distance it ran a cold,
uncompromising blue. The tide came in in great soft rolls, with no white
showing. Mayland Long and Martha Macnamara sat together on a bench at the end of
the pier. Small breezes blew around them, some scented with flowers and some
with fish. Marty stood leaning over a fenced opening through the floor of the