"Esther M. Friesner - Chicks 04 - The Chick Is In The Mail" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

She put them in the basket (noting that it was now half full) and stirred them around. With luck, Primula
wouldn't know who had done which. She hoped that every year.
***

Three days before the ball, Mirabel tugged at the bodice of her green ball gown. Her armor still fit; what
was the matter with this thing?

Of course she could wear a corset. She hated corsets. Just something else to take off, the way she
looked at it. She tugged again, and something ripped.

Perhaps she could get through the ball without raising her arms. No. She liked to dance, and she liked to
dance fast. She pawed through her trunk. The old copper silk still had that chocolate stain down the front
where she'd jogged someone's elbow, and the midnight blue had moth all up the front center panel.

Time for a new gown, then; after all, she'd worn this one four years.
***

Strictly speaking, it was not a costume ball. But it had become customary for guests to dress up in
whatever fanciful outfits they chose. Thus the appearance of a crew of pirates (striped loose trousers,
bucket boots, eye patches), several barechested barbarians, and someone clad mostly in chains and
other bits of uncomfortable-looking metal attachments provoked little comment. They had invitations,
surrendered at the door to a little girl wearing the red cloak of a Ladies' Aid & Armor Society ward, and
that was all that mattered.

Sergeants Gorse, Covet, Biersley, Dogwood, Ellis, and Slays, all resplendent in dress blue, were not so
lucky. They had attended the ball for years; the Ladies' Aid & Armor Society knew better than to
exclude sergeants. This meant nothing to the stubborn nine-year-old who had been told to let no one
through without a card. Last year she'd been banished to bed after singing "Sweet Sword of Mine" with
the orphan chorus, and she was determined to prove she was old enough for the responsibility.

"They just forgot to send ours, or it got lost," Sergeant Gorse said. "We'resergeants , Missy. Sergeants
are always invited."
 "Miss Primula said no one can go in without an invitation, no matter what they say." The nine-year-old
tossed her butter-colored braids and glared up at them. The sergeants shuffled their feet. Any one of
them could have tucked her under one arm and had room for a barrel of beer, but she was an orphan. A
soldier's orphan.

"Suppose you call Miss Primula, then."

"She said don't bother her," the nine-year-old said. "She's busy."

Sergeant Heath strolled up behind the other sergeants, also resplendent in dress blue. "What's going on
here? Why are you fellows blocking the door?"

"They don't have invitations!" clashed with "This child won't let us in, and we'resergeants ."

"Decided not to invite you lot this year, eh?" Sergeant Heath smiled unctuously at the child, and reached
past Sergeant Gorse to hand over his card. "Remember your antics last year, do they? That bit with the
tropical fruit surprise not quite so funny on second thought?" He strolled through, exuding virtue. The
others glared after him, then at Sergeant Gorse.