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

He was quiet during dinner, keeping his eyes on his plate while Father Malory and Uncle Harold discussed the church across the street through half the dinner until they were interrupted.
"I know the bell-tower was destroyed in a fire thirty years ago, which accounts for the different color of the stones, but I don't believe the late Gothic style was altered any in the reconstruction," Father Malory was
saying, and then the sudden shrill of whistling just beyond the windows broke his train of thought. He looked toward it interestedly. "I never realized before how much a group of boys whistling sounds like Irish banshees wailing for the souls of the dead."
"I didn't either," Uncle Harold said. "Bruce, why don't you go out and tell them you're eating before they shatter all Mrs. Brewster's antique glassware. Bruce."
He blinked, and looked away from Father Malory. "What?"
"Please go and tell your friends you are having dinner," Uncle Harold said patiently. Bruce left. There was a little silence. Carol swallowed a mouthful of chicken and cleared her throat.
"Uncle Harold?"
"Yes, Carol."
"DidЧdid Miss Emily ever tell you about Susan?"
"Susan? Not that I recall. Why?"
"Oh, I remember Susan," Father Malory said suddenly. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid the napkin down in the butter. "Susan the maid, who had a dreadful experience in the cellar and hysterics in the study?"
"Heavens," Uncle Harold said. "I missed a good one."
"Yes," Carol said. She swallowed, as though she had a word stuck like a fish-bone in her throat. "And I was wondering. I was wondering if she saw a ghost. In the
cellar. At homeЧI've seen movies about old English castles and houses, and they have ghosts in them. So maybe Susan saw a ghost."
"There are no such things as ghosts," Uncle Harold said firmly. "Whatever happened to Susan in the cellar was either caused by another person or her own imagination. And whatever you have seen in the cellar is probably the natural result of being for the first time in your life in a very old house that happens to stand across the street from a graveyard."
"I've always wanted to see a ghost," Father Malory remarked placidly. "But nothing exciting ever happens to me, not even when I go through the graveyard for midnight services."
Carol shivered. "I wouldn't do that for any reason."
The door opened. Bruce came back in and sat down quietly. He shifted the butter dish from underneath Father Malory's napkin and set it aside. Aunt Catherine said thoughtfully:
"I wouldn't be surprised if there were a ghost down there. We have everything elseЧmice, spiders, batches of stray kittens. It's probably the ghost of some poor vicar who got burned in his bed using a bed-warmer."
"A ghost down where?" Bruce said abruptly.
"Nowhere," said Uncle Harold.
"Did Carol see something in the cellar?"
"Susan did," said Father Malory.
"Susan who?"
"Susan the maid, about fifty years ago," Uncle Harold said patiently. "She had a frightening experience, Miss Emily said, and Carol was wondering if it were possibly a ghost, owing to the reputation that old English houses have in America."
"Oh." He drew breath softly. "Oh."
"Why," Father Malory said curiously, "would a vicar want to sleep with a bed-warmer?"
Uncle Harold laughed. He felt in his pocket for his pipe. "Why don't we have coffee in the study, and with Carol's permission, I will tell you a little story about bed-warmers."
Aunt Catherine gave Carol a tray of coffee to take to them while she cleared the table. She heard their voices, calm and unhurried, as they talked of the great stone church, and the late sunlight warmed the old stone beneath her feet. She put the tray on a table between them, and looked around as Uncle Harold poured coffee. Light traced the gold titles of books standing row upon row almost to the ceiling, or stacked sideways on the desk, on the floor. It fell in a pool on the cold grate in the fireplace, touched the rare tones of gold in the painting above the fireplace: the picture of a girl standing in a dark arch of stones, her face sober, intent as though she were listening for some sound beyond the canvas. Her long dress was deep blue; the white lace on her cuffs and the square collar showed delicate and rich against the darkness. "Who is that girl?" "Nobody knows," Uncle Harold said. "Not even
Mrs. Brewster. No one knows who painted the picture, either. Do you like it?"
"Yes. Those stonesЕ . She looks like she's standing beside the house or by the wall."
"Mm. It's strange. A mystery painting. It's nicely done."
"Mrs. Brewster had someone in to date it once," Father Malory said. "I believe he decided it had been done in the last century. It's odd, isn't it."
Uncle Harold was silent a moment. "Yes. She looks like she might have lived in the house when it was first built."
The blue eyes of the girl gazed down at them, quiet, preoccupied, and they were quiet again, looking up at her. Then Father Malory said apologetically, "I seem to be dripping on your rugЕ . Oh, I see. I have managed to dunk my sleeve in my coffee. I wonder sometimes if I am fit company for civilized men."
Carol climbed one of the tall trees that grew over the front wall the next morning, and sat hugging the trunk swaying like a ship's mast in the strong wind. She stared out at the neat rows of grey headstones, looking as weathered and immovable as old trees. The wind lulled her; she closed her eyes to the flickering sunlight and let her thoughts glide silently through her head until she was half-asleep among the rustling leaves. The noon bells roused her finally; she counted and then the thought came to her and her eyes flew open. She
moved her face from the branch and felt it stiff, patterned with bark. She stared at the quiet gravestones.
"Twelve," she whispered. "Midnight. He's a vampire, and he lives in the cellarЕ ."
She leaned over, and gripped the branch she was standing on, and swung down. She landed on the grass and got up, dusting her hands.
"Hello," said a disembodied voice.
She whirled, her heart pounding. Alexander smiled at her.
"It's only me. Flesh and bones and teeth. I came to see Bruce, but he has faded away again. So I was meditating by the fishpool when suddenly this great wild beast sprang out of a tree at me. But it's only you."
"I didn't see you come down the street."
"Well, I didn't see you hanging in the tree." He paused a moment, one eyebrow tugging upward thoughtfully. "I wonder where he goes when he goes."
Carol brushed the grass off her knees. She moved toward the house. "I don't know. Why don't you ask him?"
"I do. He gives me vague mumbles." He walked beside her, his hands in his pockets, his step long and easy through the grass. "Perhaps he goes off to grow hair all over him and howl at the moon."
"I wish you wouldn't talk about things like that."
He glanced down at her. "Is it the graveyard? Does that make you nervous? People in it are dead. I don't see why people should do things after they're dead that
they wouldn't do while they were living. Though perhaps that's no comfort."
Carol stopped suddenly on the porch. She drew a breath to speak, and held it a moment while one foot traced the letters in the welcome mat. She said finally, "Do you believe in ghosts?" "No. Not outside of people's minds." "Oh." Her mouth crooked. She nudged the door open with one shoulder. Alexander moved forward to lounge in the doorway before she closed it. "Why? Do you think you've seen one?" "Yes. It had big green teeth and spider webs in its hair, and I'm probably going nuts."