"Nancy Kress - Stalking Beans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

supposed to know this, since she thinks I'm still at market
with this week's eggs and honey. I poke at the fire, adding
up weeks in my head. They make the right sum. Annie
must have her monthly flow again, our hopes for a child
once more bleeding out between her legs.
I creep quietly out of the cottage to the dairy and sit
heavily on a churning cask. I should go to her. I should
take her in my arms and reassure her, tell her that maybe
next monthтАж But I can't go to her like this. The edge of
my own disappointment is too sharp; it would cut us both.
I sit on the churning cask until the two remaining cows low
plaintively outside their byre.
Inside the cottage Annie has lit the candles. She flies
around the dingy room, smiling brightly. "Stew tonight,
Jack! Your favorite!" She starts to sing, her voice straining
on the high notes, her eyes shining determinedly, her thin
shoulders rigid as glass.


The tax collector stands in my dairy, cleaning his
fingernails with a jeweled dagger. I recognize the dagger. It
once belonged to my father. Lord Randall must have given
it to this bloated cock's comb for a gift, in return for his
useful services. The tax collector looks around my cottage.
"Where is that book you used to have on that wooden
shelf, Jack?"
 Once he would never have dared address me so. Once
he would have said "Master John." Once. "Gone," I say
shortly. "One less thing for you to tax."
He laughs. "You've still luxury enough here, compared
to your neighbors. The land tax has gone up again, Jack.
You owe three gold pieces instead of two. Such is the
burden of the yeomanry."
I don't answer. He finishes with his nails and sheathes
the dagger. In his fat face his eyes are as shiny as a bird of
prey. "By Thursday next, Jack. Just bring it to the castle."
He smiles. "You know where it is."
Annie has appeared in the doorway behind us. If he
says to her, as he did last time, "Farewell, pretty Nan," I
will strike him. But he bustles out silently, and Annie pulls
aside her faded skirts to let him pass. The skirts wouldn't
soil his stolen finery; Annie has washed and turned and
mended the coarse material until her arms ache with
exhaustion and her skin bleeds with needle pricks. She
turns to watch the tax collector go, and for one
heart-stopping moment her body dips and I think she's
going to drop him a mocking, insolent curtsy. But instead
she straightens and turns to me.
"It's all right, Jack! It wasn't your fault! I understand!"
Her arms are around my neck, her hair muffling my