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

She whirled, her face flaming. "Well, it's your own fault! I am not an orphan, and I'm sick of being told
I'm skinny, and I hope your spokes are bent, and as soon as I can write a note to my aunt, I'm going
home, and I'm not ever coming back to this country! Ever!"
There was a little silence. "Coo. She's American." The boy beneath the bicycle pulled himself free and
sat up, rubbing an elbow. He was big, fair-haired, with a slow even voice that bore no malice.
"Are you Bruce's cousin from California? WaitтАФ" His hand went out as she turned. "What's your
name?"
She stepped across his bicycle wheel and kicked the gate open with her foot. She heard his voice,
slightly plaintive, before she kicked it closed again. "He told me her nameтАФI've forgottenтАФ" There was
a fishpond in front of the house. Great orange fish nibbling on the leaves of golden water lilies made
startled dives at her approach. The house, solid and square, had two rows of long windows and two
dormer windows jutting out from its high roof. Two great chimneys rose cold, motionless against the
sky. The stone wall stretched far toward the field, then angled to encompass a vast sweep of side yard.
Carol set her suitcases on the porch and pounded on the door. She waited a moment, flicking her long
hair out of her eyes, and she noticed then how quietly the stones rose upward before her, and how the
thin curtains breathed in and out of soundless rooms. She shifted impatiently on the steps, the anger
quivering in her. She lifted her fists to pound again.
There was a muffled voice shouting from the other side. "Why can't you go round to the back? I can'tтАФ
openтАФ"
The door creaked again, moving a fraction of an inch. The voice belonged to a boy. Carol set her
shoulder against the door and shoved.
It sprang open in a chorus of noises: a wild garbled cry; the deep curly sound of a loosened spring; the
rapid beat of a clock bell counting hours. Carol caught her balance, clinging to the doorknob. For a
second, she did not move. Then she peered around the door in time to see her dark-haired cousin
disentangling himself from a grandfather clock.
"Of all the stupid things to doтАФWill you shut up?" He pounded on the grandfather clock. It whined to a
silence; the sound hummed a moment, golden, dying in the air. Bruce was silent, blinking in the dim
hall. He reached up, massaging his shoulder. "What are you doing here?"
"Don't worry. I'm not staying long." "Are you Carol?" His eyes, narrowed a little against the light,
moved slowly over her. He dropped his hand, leaving behind a shadow of grease on his shirt. He moved,
looking behind her." Where's my parents?" "How should I know?"
His eyes came back to her. "What are you angry about? It's me who should be angry, having people push
me into clocks when I have to get my bicycle fixed."
"I didn't mean to push you into a clock. I don't see why you have a front door if you don't want people
coming through it."
"Every house has a front door. I can't help it if this one is three hundred years old and has trouble
opening. I'd rather live in a modem house with a doorbell anyway." He stopped abruptly. His mouth
pulled downward at the corners, then twitched tight. "What тАФHow did you get here? Mum and Dad
went to pick you up at the airport in London."
Carol was silent. She swallowed suddenly and sat down again on a suitcase. "Oh, no." Her hands rose
slowly, covering her mouth.
"Didn't your mother tell you?"
"I think so, but тАж there were so many people, and it was so much fun being by myself, doing things for

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myself тАж I just forgot. I took a bus to the station in London and then I took a train to Welling-borough
and then a bus to here. Then I asked where Parchment Street was and I walked here, only I thought I was