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

brainless as a six-year-old scared of monsters under his bedтАФ"
Carol stopped in the doorway, flushed and silent.
тАЬIтАЩm sorry.тАЭ
He looked back at her. His shoulders slumped. He went back to the porch and dropped onto the step.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you. Why didn't you shout back at me? You always do."
She looked down at his bent head. "I don't know тАж I thoughtтАФthe truth was as good as a lie, then."
He was silent a moment. "Well. You were right," he said softly. "That's a funny way to put it. I don't
know where I was going, anyway. And it won't do any good, my going. I'll just have to come back. So I
might as well stay here and think."
"I have an idea."
He turned. "What is it then?" he said hopefully.
"I was thinkingтАж ." She sat down beside him on the cold porch. The shadow of the house flowed over
them, over the pool, to the edge of the stone wall where the morning light had begun to warm the stones.
"Priests think a lot about dead people. Father Malory might believe us."
V.
THEY FOUND FATHER MALORY IN THE CHURCH, FOLDING up music stands. He smiled at
them as they came up the aisle. The side windows were narrow, round-arched, and the light fell in
slender fingers from them to touch the pews. The light from the great east window above the altar
flamed from the glass rose and turned Father Malory's face a gentle pink.

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Deskto...ip%20-%20The%20House%20on%20Parchment%20Street.txt (27 of 69)3/12/2004 11:53:55 PM
 file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Patricia%20McKillip%20-%20The%20House%20on%20Parchment%20Street.txt

"Good morning," he said. "We've just had choir practice."
"With Roger Simmons' cello?" Bruce said. "I saw him leave."
"Oh, yes. And we have some guitars and Martin Brewster's recorder. He wanted to play a guitar, but he
can't quite handle it and he keeps trying to sing. So I found him something simpler. Randall Harris
wanted to bring his trombone, but he tends to drown out every-
one else. So I let him bring his flute, which sounds quite nice with the cello whenever they hit the right
notes." He paused a moment, gathering music. "It's an odd combination, but they are so eager, and that
counts. They haven't performed at a mass yet. I hope people will enjoy them."
"I hope so, too," Bruce said. "It sounds like a good idea. FatherтАФ" He broke off as Father Malory
reached out and turned his face gently from the light.
"I didn't think that odd coloring was from the windowтАж . I'm sorry. Go on. I interrupted you." Bruce
sighed. "I don't know how to say it." "Start at the beginning and proceed logically." "That sounds like
something Dad would say." "He did," Father Malory said. "Ghosts," Carol said, "aren't logical." Father
Malory's eyes moved to her face. He shook the pile of music to straighten it, tapping it gently,
rhythmically on a pew-back even after it had fallen into place. "I really don't know anything about
ghosts," he said. "Why do you think they aren't logical?"
"Because if they were, they wouldn't walk through cellar walls."
Father Malory let the music rest for a moment on the pew-back. Then he dropped it on the seat and sat
down. "I suppose that's true. I don't see why they should. Do they?" "Yes." His eyes moved back and
forth across their faces. He
drew a deep breath. "How strange. Who are they, do you know?"
"We know one of them," Bruce said. "The girl in the painting in Dad's study. We just saw her yesterday.
She came out of the sunlight in her blue dress and white collar, and she walked straight through Mrs.
Brewster's cellar wall. No. Before she did, she turned and said, 'Edward. Come.' Then she walked into
the wall."
Father Malory was silent. The church was silent about them, cool, dark in the far comers by the high
round arch of the heavy oak door, where the light could not reach yet. His eyes moved from their faces;