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

"Good morning, Father Malory. Yes. Don't they look lovely?"
"Bright spots in a wilderness. Hello, there."
"Hello," Carol said, and he whisked past like a cheerful, energetic crow to be swallowed up in the
shadow of the church.
They had tea and raisin buns in Miss Emily's neat kitchen. Miss Emily talked in her gentle, cheerful
voice
about her life long ago in the big house, about her myriad relatives, living and dead, and about how hard
it was to climb the sloping hill up to the churchyard after she went shopping. The bells rang unheeded
quarter hours as she talked, and Carol's eyes glazed, and she began shredding a raisin bun into her cold
tea. The bells struck twelve, and she woke a little to count. "But Susan wouldn't stay," Miss Emily was
saying, "no matter how Mrs. Brewster cried. She was always a passionate little girl, Mrs. Brewster was,
and she loved Susan. But Susan wouldn't stay, not after what happened in the cellar."
"What happened in the cellar?" Carol asked mechanically.
"Oh, my dear, she never told anybody." "Oh."

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"She was just a little bit of a thing, not much older than you, and so fearful about breaking things when
she dusted. And when she ran up shrieking with her apron over her face we couldn't think what she had
broken in the cellar when there was nothing but coal. And she had hysterics, right in the library in front
of two visiting priests. She never would say what happened." "Never?"
"Not a word. She was so delicate I thought she wouldn't last long, but two years later I got a nice
wedding picture from her, and she lived to have five children."
Carol swallowed a yawn. "I should go," she said. "Aunt Catherine will be wondering what kind of
trouble I'm in now."
Miss Emily accompanied her to the door. "Well, you tell your Aunt Catherine she can make whatever
she likes on my stove while hers cools."
Carol blushed. "I will. Thank youтАФthank you for cheering me up."
Miss Emily patted her hand. "You come anytime you like, dear."
"Goodbye."
Miss Emily closed the door. Carol threaded her way through the maze of the colorful garden. Then she
stopped. On the other side of the gate, blocking it with his bicycle, was a familiar, fair-haired boy.
Carol's mouth pinched into a thin set line. She glanced back at Miss Emily's door, but it was firmly shut.
So she walked to the corner of the yard, stepping delicately in the pansy bed, and climbed onto Miss
Emily's white fence. The boy coasted in front of her before she could jump down.
"You're still angry," he said. "I can tell." He put out a hand to balance himself. His eyes were grey and
undisturbed.
"Will you please move."
"Please, I want to talk."
"I know. If you had known I was Bruce's cousin, you wouldn't have called me a matchstick." The color
flared into her face at the word.
"I wasn't going to give you an excuse. We were rotten, that's all. You aren't a matchstick, Carol. That's
your name. I remember now. I'm Alexander."
"I want to get off Miss Emily's fence."
Alexander sighed. "Oh. Right, then. You're still angry, and you won't talkтАж ."He rode slowly beside
her as she walked, her chin high. "Will you just answer a question? Just to be polite. Where's Bruce?"
"He went to Wellingborough."
"Mm. He had intentions to go, then. тАж He does that, sometimes, you know. He sort of vanishes.
Without a word of warning. Everyone else went to Wellingborough. But then, what's in