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

He wore a plain hat that shadowed his face; it seemed young as he passed them, yet lean and set; he
glanced back again, his eyes quick and watchful in the half-light. His hair beneath the hat was the same
color as the girl's.
Carol's hands closed against her mouth. She felt tears gathering, stinging behind her eyes. Bruce touched
her and she followed him, stumbling a little, blinking away the tears so she could see.
There was movement behind them. Bruce stopped abruptly, his breath hissing, and drew her flat beside

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him against the wall. A big man with a helm on his head passed them. He was armed at breast and back
with steel plate; he carried a long spear with an ax blade wide and curved beneath it. Bruce's light swept
over it and it flashed in a wedge of silver. Bruce made a small, inarticulate protest, as though he were
asleep, protesting a dream. Another man followed the first, similarly dressed, with a sword unsheathed
in his hand. They moved quickly ahead. Bruce followed them. Carol stared after him. She moved finally,
running a little to catch up, and a sob welled in her throat and eased away and welled again.
There was a murmur of voices ahead in the darkness and then a sudden shout. There was a scream, a
young girl's scream, high, light, endless. It grew louder and louder; Carol put her hands over her ears. A
light
flashed in her face, and she saw Bruce, turned back to her, saying something. She could not hear it above
the scream. And then, as a stone dropped from the arch, thumped at her feet, the scream became the
whine of the drilling above them. Another stone dropped. She saw Bruce's face, startled, turned upward.
Then the stones broke and poured between them in a white shower of ancient mortar.
VIII.
"BRUCE!" THE SOUND OF HER OWN VOICE STARTLED her, as though she had wakened herself,
calling. The mortar dust, thick, acrid, caught in her throat; she coughed. She heard his coughing. The
sound of it twisted into a sharp dry sob and her heart stood still. "Bruce!"
She stumbled over the stones. Light sprang at an odd angle from the floor, near the wall. Above them,
the drilling continued in short strident bursts.
"CarolтАФ"
"Where are you? Where are you? I can't see youтАФ" Her eyes flickered desperately over the shadowed
stones. Something shifted into the light; she went toward it, unsteady on the pile of stones.
"NoтАФgo backтАФ" His voice broke again in the small taut sound. Her fingers, icy, curled against her
mouth.
"Go get DadтАФHurryтАФ"
She ran down the dark tunnel, toward the small sunlit opening at the end of it. She climbed through and
ran up the stairs to the quiet hall above, and as she slammed open the cellar door, three people turned
toward her: Uncle Harold, opening the study door; Aunt Catherine at the open front door; and
Alexander, whose face was suddenly shaken out of its calm. "HurryтАФUncle Harold, the tunnel fell in on
Bruce тАФhurryтАФ"
Uncle Harold came toward her. His face was strained, puzzled, as though he were trying to understand a
language he did not know. He put his hands on her shoulders. "What? Carol, I want to help, but calm
down and tell meтАФ"
"The tunnelтАФthe priest tunnelтАФ" Her eyes moved past him to Alexander. "Tell them to stop drilling; it
knocked the stones down on himтАФ"
Uncle Harold's lips parted. "The priest tunnel? WhatтАФCarol, show me. You'll have to show me."
She led him and Aunt Catherine downstairs. Uncle Harold stopped at the sight of the hole, dark and
jagged, in the wall, the stones neatly piled among Mrs. Brewster's books.
"You did this?" His voice was sharp with incredulity. Aunt Catherine followed Carol over to the hole.
Carol turned, frightened at the tone of his voice.