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

"Susan did," said Father Malory.
"Susan who?"
"Susan the maid, about fifty years ago," Uncle Harold said patiently. "She had a frightening experience,
Miss Emily said, and Carol was wondering if it were possibly a ghost, owing to the reputation that old
English houses have in America."
"Oh." He drew breath softly. "Oh."
"Why," Father Malory said curiously, "would a vicar want to sleep with a bed-warmer?"
Uncle Harold laughed. He felt in his pocket for his pipe. "Why don't we have coffee in the study, and
with Carol's permission, I will tell you a little story about bed-warmers."
Aunt Catherine gave Carol a tray of coffee to take to them while she cleared the table. She heard their
voices, calm and unhurried, as they talked of the great stone church, and the late sunlight warmed the old
stone beneath her feet. She put the tray on a table between them, and looked around as Uncle Harold
poured coffee. Light traced the gold titles of books standing row upon row almost to the ceiling, or
stacked sideways on the desk, on the floor. It fell in a pool on the cold grate in the fireplace, touched the
rare tones of gold in the painting above the fireplace: the picture of a girl standing in a dark arch of
stones, her face sober, intent as though she were listening for some sound beyond the canvas. Her long
dress was deep blue; the white lace on her cuffs and the square collar showed delicate and rich against
the darkness. "Who is that girl?" "Nobody knows," Uncle Harold said. "Not even
Mrs. Brewster. No one knows who painted the picture, either. Do you like it?"
"Yes. Those stonesтАж . She looks like she's standing beside the house or by the wall."
"Mm. It's strange. A mystery painting. It's nicely done."
"Mrs. Brewster had someone in to date it once," Father Malory said. "I believe he decided it had been
done in the last century. It's odd, isn't it."
Uncle Harold was silent a moment. "Yes. She looks like she might have lived in the house when it was
first built."
The blue eyes of the girl gazed down at them, quiet, preoccupied, and they were quiet again, looking up
at her. Then Father Malory said apologetically, "I seem to be dripping on your rugтАж . Oh, I see. I have
managed to dunk my sleeve in my coffee. I wonder sometimes if I am fit company for civilized men."
Carol climbed one of the tall trees that grew over the front wall the next morning, and sat hugging the
trunk swaying like a ship's mast in the strong wind. She stared out at the neat rows of grey headstones,
looking as weathered and immovable as old trees. The wind lulled her; she closed her eyes to the
flickering sunlight and let her thoughts glide silently through her head until she was half-asleep among
the rustling leaves. The noon bells roused her finally; she counted and then the thought came to her and
her eyes flew open. She
moved her face from the branch and felt it stiff, patterned with bark. She stared at the quiet gravestones.
"Twelve," she whispered. "Midnight. He's a vampire, and he lives in the cellarтАж ."
She leaned over, and gripped the branch she was standing on, and swung down. She landed on the grass
and got up, dusting her hands.
"Hello," said a disembodied voice.
She whirled, her heart pounding. Alexander smiled at her.
"It's only me. Flesh and bones and teeth. I came to see Bruce, but he has faded away again. So I was
meditating by the fishpool when suddenly this great wild beast sprang out of a tree at me. But it's only
you."

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"I didn't see you come down the street."
"Well, I didn't see you hanging in the tree." He paused a moment, one eyebrow tugging upward
thoughtfully. "I wonder where he goes when he goes."