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

letting the top down soundlessly. Carol got up off the floor. Bruce opened the door. Aunt Catherine, a
damp towel full of ice in one hand, looked at them, startled. Bruce flushed slightly.
"We were discussing vampires."
A corner of her set mouth twitched. "I knew you must have something in common. Bruce, lie down and
put this on your face for a few minutes. Your dinner is in the warming oven." Her voice firmed as he
opened his mouth. "I know you don't want anyone to do anything for you, but this is for my sake: I don't
like having to look at your face in that condition, and I don't want to have to worry about your eating
habits."
Bruce sighed. "I was only going to say thank you. I haven't eaten anything all day."
They waited, the next afternoon, an hour among Mrs. Brewster's dusty china and damp books, in the
stillness of the old cellar. Sunlight strained through the streaked broken glass into a pool that widened
across the table, spilled over onto the floor. The bells measured the passing moments, drew them into
quarter hours, and at the third quarter their soft talking slowed. Bruce glanced at his watch, reset it.
Carol shifted on the table, overturned a teacup, and righted it. "Four o'clock. That's when I saw the
ghost." He nodded. "I've seen it three times, and each time
I heard the bells. I wonder тАж do you suppose that's what he was listening for? The bells? I wonder what
happened at four o'clock that day he waited in the cellar when he was alive."
"Whatever it was, he didn't go through the wall when he was alive."
"No."
"Oh. I forgot to tell you. Alexander was looking for you yesterday. HeтАФ"
"I don't care what he was doing," Bruce said abruptly. His face turned away from her toward the
window. "I don't want to think about them."
She was silent, running one finger around the teacup rim. "He wasn't there, was he?"
"Yes."
Her hand stilled. It dropped, limp, back into her lap. Her head bowed until the fall of her hair hid the
light falling across their faces. "OhтАж ."
They were silent. Someone walked in front of the house; a shadow dropped across the window,
vanished. Floorboards creaked from Uncle Harold's study above their heads. Carol swung her heel
against the table leg, her mouth pulling downward.
"I thought he was niceтАж ." The sudden touch on her arm stopped her. The bells rang four o'clock across
the peaceful summer day. In front of the grey wall a man stood listening, waiting.

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Bruce's breath gathered and stopped. The face was pale and thin-lipped, the dark hair cut blunt just below
the ears. The watchful eyes touched their faces a brief moment, and Carol froze. Then the eyes passed
indifferently away, and the man turned and walked into the wall.
Bruce's voice shook a little near Carol's ear. "Did you see the sunlight on his sword? How could it flash
like that off something that wasn't real?"
"I don't know. Why are we whispering?"
"I don't know." His hand closed suddenly in a painful grip on her arm. "CarolтАФ"
A girl walked out of the fall of sunlight toward the wall. Her long dress brushed the boxes of Mrs.
Brewster's books; they heard the soft rustle of it. Her hair fell in butter-colored curls to her shoulders.
The white
cloth of her square collar and cuffs was spotless in the light, and the lace that edged it was delicate and
rich.
She turned and looked at them; one hand touched the old stones. Her eyes were deep blue. She said
softly, "Edward. Come." And then she turned and faded through the wall.
A sound like a whimper came from Carol's throat. She swallowed, and it came again. Bruce turned and