"Patricia A. McKillip - The House on Parchment Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

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House on Parchment Street, The тАУ McKillip, Patricia A.
I.
CAROL CHRISTOPHER PUFFED HER CHEEKS, SIGHED, and sat down on her suitcases in the
middle of Parchment Street. The street was old and worn; it ended abruptly, running into a broad empty
field in front of her. On one side of the street was a graveyard. On the other side was a high stone wall
with a closed gate. Old trees arched over the wall; their leaves whispered softly against the stones. The
long windblown grass in the graveyard played the iron railing like a harp.
The warm summer wind swooped unexpectedly across the field, opened the gate, and set it creaking
aimlessly a moment. A massive square house sat firm and ancient beyond the wall, stone-grey beneath a
beard of ivy. Carol caught a glimpse of it before the gate slammed shut again. The street was empty, the
field was empty, and the only sound on Parchment
Street was the wind, agile as a cat, leaping over the old stone wall.
Carol stood up to get at the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a letter. She sat down and smoothed
it flat on her knee, her eyes flickering over it until she found the part she wanted: "тАж There is no
ordinary street address; the House is well known in Middleton, being something of a historical
monument. There are no other houses on the street anyway, except for Emily Raison's house, which is
cheerful and modest and on the graveyard sideтАж ." She looked up. A small white house with a sharply
pointed roof faced the graveyard, half-hidden in apple trees. Her head turned slowly toward the closed
gate and the grey house hidden behind it. She sighed again, softly, and folded the letter.
Six boys floated out of the graveyard on their bicycles. They skidded to a halt at the sight of her,
colliding gently with each other. For a moment they were quiet with surprise. She stared back at them,
motionless on her suitcases. And then, as though someone had pulled a string that set them in order, they
flowed into a neat circle around her, spokes winking under the sun.
"Coo, look at that hair."
"Carrots."
"No, it's more like fire. I wonder what she combs it with. Should think a rake."
"Look at those dirty jeans."
"And bare feet. I wonder if she's an orphan. I say, are you an orphan?"
Carol stood up slowly. Her hands clenched, the letter crumpled between her fingers. Faces spun around
her, curious, distant, mocking.
"She must be an orphanтАФshe's nothing but skin and bones."
"She can't talk, either."
"Of course she can't. You won't let her get a word in. Shut up, the lot of you, and let her talk."
The street was silent again but for the ceaseless click-click of bicycle wheels. Carol's mouth clamped
tight. She bent and picked up her suitcases.
"She doesn't want to talk."
She took a step forward. The circle melted forward with her. Somebody snickered.
"Matchstick. That's what she is: a walking match-stick, lit."
Carol took a firmer grip on her suitcases. She swung them in front of her, and in three long quick steps
broke the circle, leaving one bicycle wobbling perilously. Another, jolted by a suitcase, smacked against
the curb and fell.
"Ouch!"

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