"Patricia A. McKillip - The Gorgon in the Cupboard" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

"So hungry," she whispered.
You eat only a few tiny seeds from this fruit, thinking such small things would do no harm. But harm you have
done for now he can claim you as his wife and keep you, during the darkest months of the year, in his desolate and
lonely realmтАж
What was her name?
Her eyes were closing. Her bones ached; her feet seemed no longer recognizable. Not feet any longer, just pain.
Pain she walked on, and dark her only friendтАж She didn't choose; she simply fell, driven to her knees in the damp
ground beneath a tree. She crawled close to it, settled herself among its roots, her head reeling, it felt like, about to
bounce off her shoulders and roll away without her.
What was its name?
She closed her eyes and saw it: that bright, glowing fruit, those sweet, innocent seedsтАж
Pomegranate.
Would he want to finish his painting? she wondered.
But there was someone guarding her passage out of the Underworld. Someone stood at the gates she must pass
through, protecting the serene upper realms from the likes of her. Someone whose word was law on the border
between two worldsтАж
What was her name?
Her eyes. Jo could not remember her eyes, only felt them watching as she fled into the ancient, timeless dark. Only
her bun, the light, glossy brown of a well-baked dinner roll, and her chins and the watch pinned to her bosom, at one
corner of her apron.
What would her eyes say when she saw Jo?
She remembered as she felt the strong arms seize her, pull her off the earth into the nether realms of sleep.
Mrs. Grommet.
 HARRY, having returned from the country without his Medusa, avoided his studio. He did not want to open the
cupboard door again. He couldn't decide which might be worse: his painting talking to him or his painting not talking
to him. Was expecting a painting to speak to him worse than having it speak to him? Suppose he opened the cupboard
door with expectations, and nothing happened? He would be forced to conclusions which, in the cheery light of day, he
did not want to think about.
So he left the house at midmorning and dropped in at a gallery where a new painting by Thomas Buck was hung.
The gallery, recently opened, had acquired pieces indiscriminately in its desire to become fashionable. It aimed, it
declared affably, to encourage the novice as well as to celebrate the artist. Tommy Buck's work showed promise. It had
been showing promise for years. Harry, studying the new painting called Knight Errant, was gratified to see that Buck
still could not draw to save his life. The horse was absurdly proportioned; its wide, oblong back could have been set
for a dinner party of six. And the knight's hands, conveniently hidden within bulky gauntlets, gripped the reins
awkwardly, as though he were playing tug-of-war. The young woman tied to a tree, toward whom the knight rode,
seemed to be chatting amiably with the dragon who menaced her.
I could do better than that, Harry thought.
He felt the urge, remembered the anomaly in the cupboard, and was relieved when some friends hailed him. They
carried him away eventually to dine, and from there to another friend's studio where they drank wine and watched the
painter struggle with his Venus, a comely enough young woman with something oddly bland about her beauty. She
bantered well, though, and stayed to entertain them over a cold supper of beef and salad. Harry got home late,
pleasantly tipsy, and, inspired, went immediately up to his studio to view his work within the context of his friends'.
The Gorgon spoke when he opened the cupboard, causing him to reel back with a startled cry: he had actually
forgotten her.
"Hello, Harry."
"Hlmph," he choked.
"Have you found me yet?"
He tugged at his collar, tempted to slam the cupboard shut and go to bed. But he answered, venturing closer, "No.
Not yet."
"Did you even look for me?"