"Mercedes Lackey - EM 1 - The Fire Rose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

would not object to her continuing her own education-even if she had to choose an area of
specialization other than her first choice-
Perhaps she would not be treated like a servant after all. This letter seemed to have come from
the pen of a man who cherished scholarship, and would accord a scholar honest respect.
Shouldn't she at least see if he was the enlightened man his letter promised?
After all, the bottle would still be in her valise. She could end her life at any time; it did not
have to be here. She could make the journey to the West Coast first; see the vast hinterlands in
between. She had never personally seen a buffalo, a cowboy, or a Red Indian. She had never seen a
mountain, or an ocean. She had lived all her short life in Chicago; surely before she committed
any rash act, she ought to see more than just one city.
Besides, if one ended one's life-the setting ought to be something less squalid than this.
The ancient Romans called in all their friends, gathered their most precious belongings about
them, and had a great feast complete with poetry and music. Then, in the midst of splendor, they
drank their bitter cup.
She should take more thought to the setting of her demise.
Besides, it would distress those pleasant girls if I did away with myself here. It might even cast
a stigma upon poor Mrs. Abernathy, and neither she nor they have done anything to harm me. No. It
would be impolite and unpoetic to drink my cup here.
If she waited until she reached the West Coast, however-
I could go to the Opera House when Caruso sings there.
That would be a setting worthy of the Romans, and a properly poetic ending as well.
If I saved-I could have enough for a fine gown, and a private box. Even if the promised wages come
to less than he states, I could save enough.
Yes; that would be the way. To drink the dose at the first intermission, perhaps-drift away into
death with glorious music accompanying her-be found dressed exquisitely, with her letter of
farewell lying beside her on the table-
She might be thought to haunt the place afterwards, which would do the Opera House no harm, since


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every good theater should have a ghost.
Not in squalor, but in splendor; turning her back on this world in a way that could not be ignored
or pushed onto the back pages of a newspaper.
I seem to have decided to live. For now, at least.
But now she was impatient to be gone. The sooner she was on her way, the sooner she would find out
if the promise of the letter was true gold, or dross.
She managed to get herself out of bed, and went to the washstand, to pour cold water from the
pitcher into the waiting basin. Just as well that it was cold; her ablutions succeeded in removing
the outward signs of her despair from her face. She dressed in an odd combination of luxury and
penury; her most intimate underthings were silk (though muchdarned), but her stockings were of the
coarsest and cheapest cotton at five cents the pair, and they were as heavily darned as the silk.
The one thing that she never regretted about losing her maid was that she never again had anyone
about to tie the laces of her corset as tightly as a human could manage; she had not retied the
laces in a year. She donned that garment by letting out her breath and hooking it up the front,
and tolerated being that much more out of fashion by not having a fifteen-inch waist.
Petticoats were the same mixture of luxury and thrift, depending entirely on whether or not she
had been able to mend them. Her shoes were still good, although they would need resoling soon; her
walking-skirt and shirtwaist ready-made, from a store that was far from fashionable, and of fabric