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

"BruceтАФ"
Bruce walked into his back wheel. He lost his bal-lance as the bicycle overturned and fell, half-kneeling
on the spokes, his hands smacking on the walk. Alexander lay half-under the bicycle, blinking and
catching his breath. He turned slowly and pushed the handlebars from under his ribs. Bruce got up. He
stepped across the wheel and went on without a word. Alexander untangled himself; Carol heard the
faint shaking of his breath. He rolled to his feet, half-crouched, and with a sudden lunge, caught Bruce's
legs and brought him down flat on the walk.
"Will you listen?" His voice was breathless, oddly sharp. "Do you think I wanted that to happen to you
that day?" Bruce struggled beneath him; Alexander got up, and Bruce rolled over, his breath coming in
short, painful catches. Blood trickled from a raw scrape on Alexander's elbow; he touched it and winced.
"I wouldn't do that to you. I wouldn't. I happen to like pictures of cows and Queen Anne's Lace, but you
wouldn't listen if I told you. You're not very good at listening." He limped to his bicycle. Bruce stared at
him, his face pinched, white. He got to his feet. Alexander picked up his bicycle. He turned before he

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mounted, in time to see Bruce ran down the walk, turn the comer toward the open field.
Alexander leaned against the railing. He looked at Carol. She stood gazing down the walk, her hands
under her arms as though she were cold. Alexander
sighed. "I have one of his pictures. The flowers. He nearly stepped on it, fighting, so I rescued it. If he
wants it, tell him." He mounted stiffly. She watched him go. She went slowly down the path toward the
house, and the bells struck a half-hour behind her. She went through the front door, standing open to
warm the flagstones, and into the kitchen where Aunt Catherine measured flour for a cake.
"We're going to London tomorrow," she said cheerfully. "Harold decided he needed a holiday. What do
you feel like doing?"
"Throwing all Mrs. Brewster's teacups against the wall."
"What's the matter?" "Everything."
She waited alone in the afternoon, standing high in the tree by the gate, watching the field for Bruce.
The bells rang a quarter to four, and she saw Father Malory walk down the graveyard path, his black suit
speckled with sunlight from the windblown trees. She jumped down to meet him as he opened the gate.
"Hello, Carol," he said. "Where is Bruce?" "I don't know. He ran away." He stood quietly a moment, the
wind tugging at his sleeves, raising tufts in his hair. He smoothed them down absently. "Will he come
back?"
"I don't know. I think so. Are you still coming down?" "Yes, of course."
"Then wait here a moment, and I'll see if the coast is clear." She stood in the doorway and listened. She
heard the click of Uncle Harold's typewriter, and after a moment, Aunt Catherine's steps across the floor
above her head. She beckoned to Father Malory, waiting patiently on the lawn, and he came to the door
and followed her into the cellar. She cleared a place for him among Mrs. Brewster's what-nots, and he
sat down on the table. A moment later the cellar door opened. They heard soft steps on the stones. Father
Malory shifted uneasily on the table, and a little china shepherdess fell into a teacup behind him. He sat
still. Then Bruce came through the doorway, and Father Malory sighed.
"I had a sudden vision," he murmured, "of you being Mrs. Brewster."
Bruce sat down on a pile of books. He said after a moment, "She would have to be polite to you." Then
he blinked as a man moved between them in black cape and hat.
"I don't know why she would," Father Malory said meditatively. "Rules of etiquette don't cover the
possibility of finding priests sitting among one's antiques in one's cellar."
The ghost turned, walked into the wall, and Bruce's eyes jumped to Father Malory's face. His mouth
opened, closed again. Father Malory looked at him a moment. He looked at Carol, sitting beside him,
her face turned to him, her mouth open, wordless.