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

"Come upstairs; we'll find something." He looked down at Carol, sitting on the floor. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She swallowed, but her voice came in a whisper. "I think I have."
"Oh. In the cellar?"
"Yes."
Uncle Harold shook his head. "Remind me to investigate that shadow of yours. BruceЧ"
He followed Uncle Harold stiffly, the daisies trailing on the stairs. Carol sat a moment longer, staring at the chill grey flagstone. She got up finally and took the pie into the kitchen.
"Aunt CatherineЧ"
"Four, five, six," Aunt Catherine said, counting potatoes. "Thank you, CarolЧjust put it on top of the stove so it can thaw. Now, will you look in the cupboard by the door and get out the lace tablecloth and spread it on the round table in the living room. Where
is Bruce? I didn't ask for a whole floral wreath."
"Uncle Harold is putting something on his scratches." She found the tablecloth and carried it to the living room. She unfolded it and flicked it open so it floated through the air and settled lightly on the table. She leaned on it, staring down at the delicate endless pattern. "Aunt Catherine," she said softly, "I saw a man in your cellar with a black hat like a Pilgrim on his head and a sword in his hand, and he walked into the wall as though it wasn't thereЕ" Her voice sounded small, unconvincing in the quiet room. The sun picked out the deep tones of mahogany beneath the lace. She rubbed her eyes again with her fingers, and her shoulders slumped. "Aunt Catherine, I want to go homeЕ ."
"Heavens," Aunt Catherine said behind her, "this room is a wreck." She straightened the pillows on the couch and picked up sections of the morning newspaper off the rug. Bruce came in, still carrying the daisies. His face was streaked with white. Aunt Catherine glanced at him.
"What is that all over your face?"
He shrugged irritably. "I don't know. It came out of a tube."
"You look like a zebra."
His mouth twitched into an unwilling smile. "I do, rather. I can't find a vase for these, and I've looked everywhere."
"There's a blue one in the kitchen."
"Oh, Mum, I can't put them in that. It's too small. There's a symmetry involved Е I know. There's one in Dad's study." He went out again. Carol watched him cross the hall. She took a strand of hair and wound it around her chin. Then she straightened.
"Aunt CatherineЧ"
There was a hissing sound from the kitchen. "Excuse me, dear," Aunt Catherine said hurriedly. "I think my potatoes are boiling over."
Carol sighed. She twitched the tablecloth straight. Bruce came back in with a green vase and she said, "What's symmetry?"
His eyes slid to her face, surprised. He put the flowers on the table and started pulling away the leaves. He said after a moment, "It's when things balance. When they match one another in proportion. Like this house. The outside is symmetricalЧthe windows on one side are in the same position as the other, and the door is exactly in the middle. Some houses, old ones especially, might have one big window on one side of the door, and a little one on the other. Like the house is winking one eye. That's not symmetrical." He began putting the flowers into the vase. She watched them build under his hands into a white pyramid. Aunt Catherine came back in with plates and silverware in her hands. She pushed the tablecloth aside and set them down.
"That's lovely, Bruce. Thank you. Now, will you go outside and shake the leaves off the tablecloth. And then go change your shirt."
He murmured absently, tugging gently at the pyramid. He gathered the cloth in his arms and went to the front door. Carol followed him slowly.
"Bruce," she said, as he tugged open the door. His head turned, his eyes meeting hers almost uncertainly. He whipped the cloth open, scattering leaves on the steps and on the head and shoulders of Father Malory, standing silent with surprise on the doorstep.
Carol gave a startled hiccup of laughter and stilled it with one hand over her mouth. Bruce's face flushed crimson. Father Malory brushed the leaves off his sleeves as though he were used to doing it.
"Hello, Bruce. I thought that might be your cousin, when I saw her this morning. Catherine said she had red hair. How do you do? I am Father Malory."
He held out his hand, a leaf dangling from the black cuff. Carol shook hands with him. Bruce ran a hand through his hair.
"This is Carol Christopher. I'm sorry about the leaves. I didn't see you in time."
"I'm thankful it's only leaves. Do you know, two or three centuries ago, people weren't so careful about what they threw out of their windows and doors without looking. Good afternoon, Harold. It might as easily have been the remains of yesterday's stew." He shook hands with Uncle Harold. "How is your article on Viking activity in Scotland coming?"
"Fairly well," Uncle Harold said. "It will probably involve another trip North before I have to begin
teaching again, but I don't think Catherine will mind that. Come in. I'll show you part of it." He opened the study door. "Sit down. Would you like some wine?"
"I would, thank you."
Uncle Harold paused a moment before he went out. "Have you been gardening?"
"No. I have no talent for that. People don't even trust me to water the flowers in the church. Why?"
"You have an unusual amount of leaves in your hair."
"Oh." Father Malory brushed at them. Bruce went back into the living room and spread the tablecloth out again. Carol picked a stray leaf off it.
"He's nice. I didn't know priests were nice."
"What did you think they were like?"
"I don't know. Gloomy. They wear black and talk about what happens after you're dead."
"People's clothes don't matter."
"Yes, they do. You try going into a little town with bare feet and patched jeans and then say they don't matter."
He set the flowers precisely into the center of the circle. "That's different. Priests have always worn black. It's traditional. That's why you can't tell what a priest is like from his clothes. But if a priest wore jeans and went barefoot, then his clothes would matter to other people. Why don't you wear dresses and comb your hair?"
"I do comb it!"
"Well, it never looks combed. I'm not trying to start an argument; I'm just saying that you look the way you do most likely because you don't want to look the way somebody that you don't like looks."
"Or because the people I like dress this way."
"Well, then, you aren't going to like anybody in this town." He went to the door. He paused before he opened it. "What were you going to say before I dumped the leaves on Father Malory?"
"Never mind," Carol said crossly. "I think you like starting arguments. You don't like people liking you. And I do like people in this town. I like Emily Raison, and your parents, and Father Malory. And I think I like Alexander."
"Alexander?"
"At least he smiles." She went into the kitchen. Aunt Catherine, mashing potatoes, looked up at the abrupt closing of the door. Carol sat down at the table and ruffled her hair with her hands angrily.
"I'm going to throw my comb and brush away. Then he'll really suffer."