"Patricia A. McKillip - Solstice Wood" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

snail-shell curls, their pleated faces tinted purple in the reflected
light from the vacancy sign.
Time had slowed in the fields along the road between the village
and Lynn Hall. So little had changed, I might have been driving
back into my own past. A barn roof that had been sagging for years
had finally dropped a beam. The crusty old harrow still decorated
the ThorntonsтАЩ cornfield like a piece of sculpture. Lynn Hall, a solid
rectangle of pale stone looming unexpectedly over the fields, looked
oddly bigger than I remembered. It should have been smaller, I
thought uneasily. Things grow in memory, in the dark; they shrink,
lose their power, in reality. As I pulled into the drive, I saw the
wood behind the hall, which had dwindled, as I had grown, from a
boundless, tangled mystery into a tranquil patch of trees. Now it
seemed to dwarf Lynn Hall, an immense, dark, frozen wave about
to break over it. I nearly hit the brakes, backed out in a flurry of
gravel to head for the airport again. Some of the dark, I realized
slowly, was just that: the night I wasnтАЩt used to any longer, flowing
over hill and field, no city lights to push it back, only stars, and the
rising moon, and the occasional porch light in the crook of a
mountain road to tell me where I was.
I parked at the end of the drive near the carport, where GramтАЩs
burgundy sedan the size of a cruise ship, and my great-uncle
HurleyтАЩs pickup, so old it was held together by duct tape and rust,
spent their declining years. As I picked my way across the grass, a
luna moth went ahead of me, a fluttering wisp of moonlight. The
front door was locked, and the doorbell made no sound when I
pushed it. By which I could have concluded, if I wasnтАЩt sure, that
Hurley, who liked to tinker with things, was still alive and kicking.
The thick door groaned as I tried the doorbell again. I pushed;
someone pulled. The door squealed against its warped, swollen posts
and sprang open. A lanky, twiggy troll and I stared at each other
across the threshold. Then the troll touched his glasses into place,
and I recognized those green eyes. They belonged to my aunt
KathrynтАЩs son Tyler, who had barely cleared my shoulder the last I
saw of him.
тАЬSyl?тАЭ he said uncertainly, and I remembered that IтАЩd changed,
too.
I reached up, saved by my thick-soled boots from having to stand
on tiptoe. тАЬMe,тАЭ I agreed, breathing a kiss on his cheek. тАЬHi, cuz.тАЭ
тАЬWhatтАФwhereтАЩs the rest of your hair? And your glasses? HowтАЩd
you get soтАФso grown-up?тАЭ
тАЬCity living, I guess.тАЭ
тАЬI guess,тАЭ he echoed, still staring. This Tyler had a volcanic
complexion, a ring in his left eyebrow, and spiky hair with mossy
green highlights in it. His brows were still black.
Thirteen years separated us, along with the distance I had to look
up to see his face. тАЬIs there, like, a name for the color of your hair?тАЭ
I had to think. тАЬSahara Sunrise this month. Yours?тАЭ
He smiled, showing a dimple I remembered. тАЬMom calls it Froggy
Bottom.тАЭ