"Mercedes Lackey - A Ghost of a Chance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

had undoubtedly left it when Stara ordered her upstairs. Rune took it; her first
glance around had told her that nothing more had been accomplished except to
open the shutters. The benches were still stacked atop the tables, and the
latter pushed against the walls; the fireplace was still full of last night's
ashes. Nothing had been cleaned or put into order, and the only sign that the
tavern was opening for business was the open shutters. Probably because that was
all anyone had thought to tell Maeve to do.
Rune went to the farthest corner of the room and started sweeping, digging the
worn bristles of the broom firmly against the floorboards. The late Rose, wife
of Innkeeper Jeoff, had called Maeve "an innocent." Annie said she was "a little
simple."
What Stara called her was "a great lump."
Poor Maeve was all of those, Rune reflected. She lived in a world all her own,
that was certain. She could-and did, if left to her own devices-stand in a
window for hours, humming softly with no discernible tune, staring at nothing.
But if you gave her clear orders, she would follow them to the exact letter.
Told to sweep out a room, she would do so. That room, and no more, leaving a
huge pile of dirt on the threshold. Told to wash the dishes, she would wash the
dishes all right, but not the pots, nor the silverware, and she wouldn't rinse
them afterwards. Of course, if anyone interrupted her in the middle of her task,
she would drop what she was doing, follow the new instructions, and never return
to the original job.
Still, without her help, Rune would have a lot more to do. She'd never have time
to practice her fiddling.
Rune attacked the dirt of the floor with short, angry strokes, wishing she could
sweep the troubles of her life out as easily. Not that life here was bad,
precisely-
"Rune?" Stara called down the stairs. "Are you sweeping? I can't hear you."
"Yes M-Stara," Rune replied. The worn bristles were too soft to scrape the floor
the way Maeve's broom was doing, but it was pointless to say anything about it.
So Stara didn't want to be called "Mother" anymore. Rune bit her lip in
vexation. Did she really think that if Rune stopped referring to her as "Mother"
people would forget their relationship?
Not here, Rune told herself sourly. Not when my existence is such a pointed
example of why good girls don't do That without wedding banns being posted.
Even though Stara was from a village far from here-even though she wore the
braids of a married woman and claimed that Rune's father had been a journeyman
muleteer killed by bandits-most of the village guessed the real truth. That
Stara was no lawfully wedded widow; that Rune was a bastard.
Stara had been a serving wench in the home of a master silversmith, and had let
the blandishments of a peddler with a glib tongue and ready money lure her into
his bed. The immediate result had been a silver locket and scarlet ribbons from
his pack. The long-term result was a growing belly, and the loss of her place.
Stara lived on the charity of the Church for a time, but no longer than she had
to. After Rune had been born, Stara had packed up her belongings and her meager
savings, and set out on foot as far as her money would take her, hoping to find
some place where her charm, her ability to wheedle, and her soft blond
prettiness would win her sympathy, protection, and a new and better place.
Rune suspected that she had soon discovered-much to her shock-that while her
looks, as always, won her the sympathy of the males of the households she sought