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

They worked straight through two more days. By the end of the third day there was a thin jagged hole in
Mrs. Brewster's cellar wall, almost big enough to squeeze through. They hid the hole, shoved the stones
behind the table, and brushed themselves off, too weary even to speak. The house was empty when they
went upstairs; Aunt Catherine and Uncle Harold had gone somewhere.
"Tomorrow," Bruce said. Alexander nodded, stifling a yawn. He went home. Carol went upstairs and
washed the dust out of her hair. She brushed it dry beside her open window. Two long strips of the street
next to the curbs were crumbled; they had begun to dig in one of them. The green truck was gone. She
watched the sun slip behind the church spire, then behind the church. Then she saw Bruce come out with
a wheelbarrow and hedge-clippers. He began to work slowly, letting the clippings fall heedlessly to the
ground. He stopped once and looked down the long shaggy hedge that ran down the walk to the back of
the house, where it curved upward into an arch that led to the side lawn. He yawned, scratching his head
with the point of the clippers. Carol leaned back against the wall and watched him. The brush lay idle in

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her stiff aching hands. He blurred finally before her half-closed eyes, and she straightened, yawning, and
began to brush again.
"What on earth have you been doing?" Aunt Catherine said at dinner. "You're both half-asleep in your
plates."
Bruce blinked, stirring himself. "Oh. WeтАФI've been
showing Carol a piece of Middleton. We were at it longer than we expected."
"What part did you see, Carol?"
She waved her hand vaguely. "That part across the field, where the farms are. I saw a bull. I've never
seen one close before." She yawned in spite of herself.
Aunt Catherine looked at her, frowning a little. Then she said, "Well. A good night's rest will cure you.
You've been so quiet, lately. I hope you're enjoying yourself."
"Oh, yes."
Uncle Harold cleared his throat. "I don't mean to nag," he said. "But there are dandelions all over the
side lawn."
Bruce nodded. His hand lay lax around his milk glass, as though he were too tired to lift it. "I know. I'm
sorry. I'll get to it. TomorтАФTomorrow."
Alexander did not come the next morning. They worked on two final stones that jutted into the hole and
stopped their passage. Bruce called his house at noon.
"He's not there," he told Carol as they waited after lunch for the drilling to start again. "His mother sent
him out to buy some new window-screens, and he came back and went again and she wanted to know
where he was because he was supposed to put the screens in."
Carol wiggled her aching shoulders. "I wonder where he is."
"I hope he's here by four."
They moved the final stone at three-thirty. Bruce sat down on one of them and brushed at his face. His
hands shook. He smiled at her, and the dust cracked on his face like a mask.
"I'm scared," she said. "What ifтАФBruce, what if we go through the tunnel and there's another century at
the end of it. We'd be in the middle of a war."
"You can stay behind if you want. Then you can do all the explaining. What would you beтАФa Royalist
or a Roundhead?"
"I don't know. I don't want to fight anybody. That's why I never liked history. Every time you turn a
page in a history book, there's a different war going on."
"I know. But whenтАФwhen two people can't even keep from fighting, it's hard to expect whole groups
not to fight. But if that's all people did, they wouldn't be here still. They do other things. They build
churches. Make wax statues. Write poetry, when nobody's looking. They build houses and tunnels that