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

He blinked, coming out of his obsessive trance. That full, provocative splendor of a mouth was startling beneath
the gentle, frightened eyes of his Persephone. But the likeness transfixed him. Aurora's mouth it was; he had succeeded
beyond all dreams in shifting it from memory into paint. He could not use it. Of course he could not. Everyone would
recognize it, even on some other woman's face. Which he would need to go out and find, if he wanted to finish this
Persephone. Maybe not his masterwork, but far easier to manage than the goat; she would do until inspiration struck.
He lingered, contemplating that silent, untouchable mouth. He could not bring himself to wipe it away yet. He
would go down and eat his cold supper, deal more ruthlessly with the mouth after he had found a replacement for it. It
did not, after all, belong to him; it belonged to the wife of his dear friend and mentorтАж He tore his eyes from it, lifted
the canvas from the easel and positioned it carefully back in the cupboard, where it could dry and be forgotten at the
same time.
He closed the door and the lips spoke.
"Harry!" Its voice was sweet and raucous and completely unfamiliar. "You're not going to leave me here in the
dark, are you? After calling me all afternoon? Harry?"
He flung himself against the door, hearing his heart pound like something frantic trying to get out of him, or trying
to get in. He tried to speak; his voice wouldn't come, only silent bleats of air, like an astonished sheep.
"Harry?"
"WhoтАФ" he finally managed to gasp. "WhoтАФ"
"Open the door."
"N." -
"You know I'm in here. You can't just keep me shut up in here."
"N."
"Oh Harry, don't be so unfriendly. I won't bite. And even if I didтАФ" The voice trilled an uncouth snigger, "you'd
like it, from this mouth."
Harry, galvanized with sudden fury, clutched at the cupboard latch, barely refraining from wrenching it open.
"How dare you!" he demanded, feeling as though the contents of his inmost heart had been rifled by vulgar, soiled
hands. "Who are you?"
"That's it," the voice cooed. "Now lift the latch, open the door. You can do it."
"If you force me to come in, I'llтАФI'll wipe away your mouth with turpentine."
"Tut, Harry. How crude. Just when I'm ready to give you what you want most."
"What I wantтАФ"
"Inspiration, Harry. You've been wishing for me ever since you gave up on the goat and gave me a chance to get a
word in edgewise."
"You're a mouthтАФ" He was breathing strangely again, taking in too much air. "How can you possibly know about
the goat?"
"You called me."
"I did not."
 "You invoked me," the voice insisted. "I am the voice of your despair. Your desire. Why do you think I'm coming
out of these lips?"
Harry was silent, suddenly breathless. A flash went through him, not unlike the uncomfortable premonition of
inspiration. He was going to open the door. Pushed against it with all his strength, his hands locked around the latch,
he was going to openтАж "Who are you?" he pleaded hoarsely. "Are you some sort of insane Muse?"
"Guess again," the voice said cooly. "You looked upon your Beloved and thought of me. I want you to paint me. I
am your masterwork."
"My masterwork."
"Paint me, Harry. And all you wish for will be yours."
"All I wishтАж"
"Open the door," the voice repeated patiently. "Don't be afraid. You have already seen my face."
His mouth opened; nothing came out. The vision stunned him, turned him into stone: the painting that would rivet
the entire art world, reveal at last the depths and heights of his genius. The snake-haired daughter of the gods whose
beauty threatened, commanded, whose eyes reflected inexpressible, inhuman visions.