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

lost because I couldn't remember that there were supposed to be graves. And thenтАж ." Color washed
into her face; her hands closed beneath her chin into fists.
"And then what?"
She stood up. "And then I decided to go back home. I have a round-trip ticket and I'm going. At home
they don't tease me. Much."
Bruce's mouth opened slightly. It curved, after a moment, into a soft, noiseless "OhтАж ." He drew a
breath. "They just aren't used to people who areтАФ different. This is a little town."
"Do they do that to everybody who looks different?" He nodded, his eyes steady, aloof on her face.
"Mm. And most of the time, I'm there to help. Only I wasn't, today, because I've been fixing a flat."
In the silence, the clock started ticking again, after a soft inner click, as though some piece had fallen
into place. Carol picked up her suitcases. "Well." Her voice shook on the word; she paused to steady it.
"Tell Aunt Catherine I'm sorry she had to go to London for noth-
"It's just what Dad would call facts. About me. He's a historian. After all, we don't have to like each
other. You came over for a month to get cultured. To see how people in a different country live. You
might as well stay for that, now you're here. You would just upset everyone if you went back home."
"Everybody here has upset me."
"People naturally upset each other. Perhaps in California, people all go barefoot with their hair in their
faces, but not in Middleton. People don't тАФ people don't like strange things." He bent down, reaching
for her suitcases, and for a moment she could not see his face. Her voice came unfamiliar, distinct and
needle-sharp.
"You surprised me, too. I thought you would at least be nice."
His face, pink and white in the summer sunlight, flushed to the color of an even sunburn. For a moment
his eyes lost their aloofness, flicked uncertainly to her
face. Then his dark brows melted together into a scowl. He took the suitcases from her and turned to the
staircase. "I used to be," he said. "Your bedroom is upstairs. I'll show you, and then I have to fix my
bicycle. You can look around by yourself." The stairs, red-carpeted, creaked under their feet. "That's my
room, round the corner. Yours is on the main landing." They turned a corner and went up a few more
steps. He nudged a door open with his foot. "Bathroom's next door."
The room was small and sunlit, with a dark ancient wardrobe twice as big as the bed. There was a full-
length mirror in the door of it; she saw herself suddenly in it, tall as Bruce, her hair vivid, tangled from
the wind, her worn jeans doubled-patched at the knees. She turned away and went to look out the
window.
It faced Parchment Street. Across the rows of gravestones half-hidden in the trees, she saw a great grey
church, its spire drifting in the moving clouds. As she opened the window, bells played a familiar four-
tone melody, then tolled the hour.
"Four o'clock. Does it bother you, living across the street from a graveyard?"
He did not answer. She turned and found him standing behind her, his hands in his pockets, staring down
at the graves with narrowed eyes. The color had come into his face again.
"I hate it," he said softly. "Dad likes it. He likes old things. I do, too, when they'reтАФwhen they're
beautiful. Like the church. But I hate this house."
He turned abruptly, restlessly. Then he turned back, leaning out the window, and shouted back at a

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chorus of staccato shouts and whistles that broke the mellow silence on Parchment Street.
"Hoy! I'm coming! I'm coming!"
A chain of bicycle riders poured through the gate, began to rotate around the fishpond. Carol stepped
back from the window. Bruce jerked himself back in. Somewhere below a phone rang.
"That'll be Mum and Dad, I expect. Phone's in the kitchen." He vanished. She stood a moment, listening