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

"You're frightened. What's the matter?"
Her mouth was too dry for speaking. She swallowed. And then she laughed, drawing a little jerky breath.
"It was your shadow, going across the wall. It scared me. I thoughtтАФit looked likeтАФit looked like
somebody walking into the wall."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. Don't let the house trouble you. It creaks quite a bit, but I doubt
if there are ghosts wandering through the walls."
He followed her back up, switching the lights off behind him. She turned suddenly at the top of the stairs
and looked down into the dark rooms. Uncle Harold waited patiently. Her brows crept together. She
looked at him puzzledly.
"But I wonder where that cat went."
II.
IN THE LIVING ROOM THEY FOUND AUNT CATHERINE
knitting in a rocking chair beside the fireplace. The fireplace, built of red brick with a mantel of dark
rich paneling, was enclosed in a deep alcove of thick stone from which unfamiliar things hung, gleaming
in the lamplight. Aunt Catherine's mouth was set in a straight grim line. Carol looked over her shoulder
to see what she was knitting, and she dropped her hands in her lap with a sigh.
"What is it going to be?"
"Heaven knows. I want it to be a scarf. Emily Raison is teaching me. She can knit whole sweaters."
"It looks all right," Carol said. She sat down on the brick ledge in front of the fireplace. Uncle Harold
came back from putting coal in the stove and sat down, dusting his hands. Something clanged faintly
in back of him, and he shifted his chair forward. A brass frying pan with a four-foot handle swung gently
against the stones behind him. Carol leaned forward to look at it.
"What is that?" She raised the hinged lid. "It's too heavy to be a popcorn popper."
Uncle Harold laughed. "It's an antique bed-warmer. The vicars didn't have electric heaters to warm their
rooms, so they put coals in the pan and warmed their sheets before they went to bed."
"There are times when I've been tempted to use it myself," Aunt Catherine said, frowning at her knitting.

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"You can't say you weren't warned," Uncle Harold said. "I warned you about English weather, but you
married me anyway."
"I was young and innocent. I wonder why there is a hole in the middle of my scarfтАж ."
Carol looked behind her at the row of fragile teacups on the mantel. She shifted, leaning back against the
stones, and glanced up to find a dark, unfamiliar shape hanging over her head. She stood up and reached
for it.
"Be careful," Uncle Harold murmured. "It's heavy."
The weight of the iron ball pulled her hand downward. She caught at it and numbed her fingers against
the spikes protruding from the ball. She shook her hand absently, staring puzzledly at the arrangement of
the ball, linked by heavy chain to a polished wooden handle. Then she said,
"Oh."
"It's a flail. Knights used them during the Crusades. I expect they were quite effective."
"I bet they were." She weighed it experimentally in her hand. The dark ball swung back and forth like a
pendulum. "I can't imagine really killing someone with one of these. There wouldn't be much left of
him, and you would have to see it. тАж It's a little like a baseball bat, I guess. You adjust the weight over
your shoulder andтАФ"
The door opened, and Bruce came in. He stopped abruptly as Carol turned, and the iron ball, swinging
gracefully through the air, smashed one china cup to splinters on the mantel and knocked another to the
floor.
The ball bounced painfully against Carol's elbow, but she did not seem to notice it. She stared horrified