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

He murmured absently, tugging gently at the pyramid. He gathered the cloth in his arms and went to the
front door. Carol followed him slowly.

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"Bruce," she said, as he tugged open the door. His head turned, his eyes meeting hers almost uncertainly.
He whipped the cloth open, scattering leaves on the steps and on the head and shoulders of Father
Malory, standing silent with surprise on the doorstep.
Carol gave a startled hiccup of laughter and stilled it with one hand over her mouth. Bruce's face flushed
crimson. Father Malory brushed the leaves off his sleeves as though he were used to doing it.
"Hello, Bruce. I thought that might be your cousin, when I saw her this morning. Catherine said she had
red hair. How do you do? I am Father Malory."
He held out his hand, a leaf dangling from the black cuff. Carol shook hands with him. Bruce ran a hand
through his hair.
"This is Carol Christopher. I'm sorry about the leaves. I didn't see you in time."
"I'm thankful it's only leaves. Do you know, two or three centuries ago, people weren't so careful about
what they threw out of their windows and doors without looking. Good afternoon, Harold. It might as
easily have been the remains of yesterday's stew." He shook hands with Uncle Harold. "How is your
article on Viking activity in Scotland coming?"
"Fairly well," Uncle Harold said. "It will probably involve another trip North before I have to begin
teaching again, but I don't think Catherine will mind that. Come in. I'll show you part of it." He opened
the study door. "Sit down. Would you like some wine?"
"I would, thank you."
Uncle Harold paused a moment before he went out. "Have you been gardening?"
"No. I have no talent for that. People don't even trust me to water the flowers in the church. Why?"
"You have an unusual amount of leaves in your hair."
"Oh." Father Malory brushed at them. Bruce went back into the living room and spread the tablecloth
out again. Carol picked a stray leaf off it.
"He's nice. I didn't know priests were nice."
"What did you think they were like?"
"I don't know. Gloomy. They wear black and talk about what happens after you're dead."
"People's clothes don't matter."
"Yes, they do. You try going into a little town with bare feet and patched jeans and then say they don't
matter."
He set the flowers precisely into the center of the circle. "That's different. Priests have always worn
black. It's traditional. That's why you can't tell what a priest is like from his clothes. But if a priest wore
jeans and went barefoot, then his clothes would matter to other people. Why don't you wear dresses and
comb your hair?"
"I do comb it!"
"Well, it never looks combed. I'm not trying to start an argument; I'm just saying that you look the way
you do most likely because you don't want to look the way somebody that you don't like looks."
"Or because the people I like dress this way."
"Well, then, you aren't going to like anybody in this town." He went to the door. He paused before he
opened it. "What were you going to say before I dumped the leaves on Father Malory?"
"Never mind," Carol said crossly. "I think you like starting arguments. You don't like people liking you.
And I do like people in this town. I like Emily Raison, and your parents, and Father Malory. And I think
I like Alexander."
"Alexander?"