"House On Parchment Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

"We were looking for ghosts," Carol said. Bruce glanced at her, startled. Aunt Catherine's eggs began to smoke behind her, but she did not notice them. "Ghosts?"
"They come out at midnight." Uncle Harold eased back in his chair. He took a sip of tea. "Did they?"
"No. Mrs. Brewster came instead." "Oh." He chuckled. "I see. Tell me, did you really expect to see ghosts?"
"We wouldn't have gone otherwise," Bruce said tightly. "It was just an idea. I'm sorry Mrs. Brewster was annoyed. I don't know what she thought I was doingЧbody-snatching or something. I wish she would stop bothering me." He rose abruptly. "Excuse me. I'm not hungry."
"Bruce," Uncle Harold said quickly. Bruce paused, his hands closed on the back of his chair. "I don't question your methods in this case. But I should have thought you would have formed your conclusion about ghosts a few years earlier in your life."
"I thought I had." He turned. They heard his steps going down the hall quickly, toward the front door. Uncle Harold touched his eyes. "I said something. What did I say?"
Carol pushed her chair. "I don't know. I'll be back; I'm starving. Aunt Catherine, your eggs are burning."
She caught up with Bruce as he went out the door, and he snapped miserably without stopping, "Why did you tell? Couldn't you think up a good lie or stay quiet so I could? Now he'll know I'm barmy, brainless as a six-year-old scared of monsters under his bedЧ"
Carol stopped in the doorway, flushed and silent.
УIТm sorry.Ф
He looked back at her. His shoulders slumped. He went back to the porch and dropped onto the step. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you. Why didn't you shout back at me? You always do."
She looked down at his bent head. "I don't know Е I thoughtЧthe truth was as good as a lie, then."
He was silent a moment. "Well. You were right," he said softly. "That's a funny way to put it. I don't know where I was going, anyway. And it won't do any good, my going. I'll just have to come back. So I might as well stay here and think."
"I have an idea."
He turned. "What is it then?" he said hopefully.
"I was thinkingЕ ." She sat down beside him on the cold porch. The shadow of the house flowed over them, over the pool, to the edge of the stone wall where the morning light had begun to warm the stones. "Priests think a lot about dead people. Father Malory might believe us."
V.
THEY FOUND FATHER MALORY IN THE CHURCH, FOLDING up music stands. He smiled at them as they came up the aisle. The side windows were narrow, round-arched, and the light fell in slender fingers from them to touch the pews. The light from the great east window above the altar flamed from the glass rose and turned Father Malory's face a gentle pink.
"Good morning," he said. "We've just had choir practice."
"With Roger Simmons' cello?" Bruce said. "I saw him leave."
"Oh, yes. And we have some guitars and Martin Brewster's recorder. He wanted to play a guitar, but he can't quite handle it and he keeps trying to sing. So I found him something simpler. Randall Harris wanted to bring his trombone, but he tends to drown out every-
one else. So I let him bring his flute, which sounds quite nice with the cello whenever they hit the right notes." He paused a moment, gathering music. "It's an odd combination, but they are so eager, and that counts. They haven't performed at a mass yet. I hope people will enjoy them."
"I hope so, too," Bruce said. "It sounds like a good idea. FatherЧ" He broke off as Father Malory reached out and turned his face gently from the light.
"I didn't think that odd coloring was from the windowЕ . I'm sorry. Go on. I interrupted you." Bruce sighed. "I don't know how to say it." "Start at the beginning and proceed logically." "That sounds like something Dad would say." "He did," Father Malory said. "Ghosts," Carol said, "aren't logical." Father Malory's eyes moved to her face. He shook the pile of music to straighten it, tapping it gently, rhythmically on a pew-back even after it had fallen into place. "I really don't know anything about ghosts," he said. "Why do you think they aren't logical?"
"Because if they were, they wouldn't walk through cellar walls."
Father Malory let the music rest for a moment on the pew-back. Then he dropped it on the seat and sat down. "I suppose that's true. I don't see why they should. Do they?" "Yes." His eyes moved back and forth across their faces. He
drew a deep breath. "How strange. Who are they, do you know?"
"We know one of them," Bruce said. "The girl in the painting in Dad's study. We just saw her yesterday. She came out of the sunlight in her blue dress and white collar, and she walked straight through Mrs. Brewster's cellar wall. No. Before she did, she turned and said, 'Edward. Come.' Then she walked into the wall."
Father Malory was silent. The church was silent about them, cool, dark in the far comers by the high round arch of the heavy oak door, where the light could not reach yet. His eyes moved from their faces; he stared at the rose window.
"Do you believe us?" Bruce said. Father Malory's eyes came back to him.
"Yes. But belief is not the same as knowledge." He sighed slightly. "I amaze myself at times."
"You amaze me," Bruce said. "If I told Dad what weЧ" He stopped abruptly.
"You haven't tried?"
"Oh, we've tried. But he can'tЧthe problem is, he can't see them."
"Oh."
"And I'm not going to come straight out and tell him. He is interested in facts. Ghosts don't exist. That's fact. Well, I've seen two. That's another fact. I brought him down to the cellar one day after I'd seen the first one, and Dad couldn't see it. But Carol's seen both of them."
"OhЕ ." He stirred, his eyes falling away from them again, glinting a little in the morning light. "Do you know what century that young girl's clothes belong to?"
"No."
"The same century the house as it stands now was built in. The seventeenth century. The century of Civil War, the Stuart Kings, of the beginnings of modern
science, the beginnings of religious tolerationЕ . You mentioned two ghosts. Who is the other?"
"He wears black," Bruce said. "He wears pants that come down to his knees and dark stockings andЧ"
"He looks like a Pilgrim," Carol said. "But he carries a sword in his hand."
"A sword." He fell silent. Then he straightened, rising. "I must go. I told old Mrs. Louis I could come visit this morning; she's in bed with a broken ankle When can I come and see them with you?"
"I've always seen them about four." He hesitated. "Can youЧcan you come without my parents seeing you? I don't want to explain. Not until you've seen them. I'll wait for you in the yard."
"We can try, but I thinkЕ . Bruce, why don't you tell your father? Let him come down with us. He'llЧ"
"Can't you understand? He doesn't listen. Carol's told him twice there are ghosts in the cellar, and the minute he hears the word, you can tell that he's trying to think what she might have mistaken for a ghost. And I don'tЧI don't want him to thinkЧhe thinks I'm crazy enough as it isЧI ride into blackberry hedges, I forget to come home for dinner, I argue with everybody and get into fights, andЧlast night we were in the graveyard waiting for ghosts, and Mrs. Brewster caught us, and Carol told him exactly what we were doing, and he looked at me likeЧlike I was daft or the village idiotЧand that's what I feel like sometimes,
when I talk to him. I don't feel like that talking to you."
Father Malory picked up the music and the music stands. They walked down the aisle with him. "Your father has a very clear, sensible mind and a generous personality. I think you could hurt him very deeply, if you wanted to."
Bruce stopped. Father Malory opened the door and looked back at him. The rounded doorway framed the long slope of green grass in front of the church that ran down the hill toward the busy street below. Carol's head turned from Bruce to Father Malory, her brows tugging together anxiously. Bruce's hands opened and closed.
"What makes you think I want that?"