"Patricia A. McKillip - The Lion and the Lark" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

Her sisters seemed fearless in the face of this power--whether from
innocence or design, Lark was uncertain. Since she was wary of men, and
seldom spoke to them, she felt herself safe. She spoke mostly to her
father, who only had a foolish, doting look in his eyes, and who of all
men could make her smile.

One day their father left on a long journey to a distant city where he
had lucrative business dealings. Before he left, he promised to bring
his daughters whatever they asked for. Diamond, in a riddling mood, said
merrily, "Bring us our names!"

"Oh, yes," Pearl pleaded, kissing his balding pate. "I do love pearls."
She was wearing as marly as she had, on her wrists, in her hair, on her
shoes. "I always want more."

"But," their father said with an anxious glance at his youngest, who was
listening with her grave, slightly perplexed expression, "does Lark love larks?"

Her face changed instantly, growing so bright she looked ahnost
beautiful. "Oh, yes. Bring me my singing name, Father. I would rather
have that than all the lifeless, deathless jewels in the world."

Her sisters laughed; they petted her and kissed her, and told her that
she was still a child to hunger after worthless presents. Someday she
would learn to ask for gifts that would outlast love, for when love had
ceased, she would still possess what it had once been worth.

"But what is love?" she asked, confused. "Can it be bought like
yardage?" But they only laughed harder and gave her no answers.

She was still puzzling ten days later when their father returned. Pearl
was in the kitchen baking spinach tea cakes, and Diamond in the library,
dozing over the philosophical writings of Lord Thiggut Moselby. Lark
heard a knock at the door, and then the lovely, liquid singing of a
lark. Laughing, she ran down the hall before the servants could come,
and swung open the door to greet their father.

He stared at her. In his hands he held a little silver cage. Within the
cage, the lark sang constantly, desperately, each note more beautiful
than the last, as if, coaxing the rarest, finest song from itself, it
might buy its freedom. As Lark reached for it, she saw the dark blood
mount in her father's face, the veins throb in his temples. Before she
could touch the cage, he lifted it high over his head, dashed it with
all his might to the stone steps.

"No!" he shouted. The lark fluttered within the bent silver; his boot
lifted over cage and bird, crushed both into the stones. "No!"

"No!" Lark screamed. And then she put both fists to her mouth and said
nothing more, retreating as far as she could without moving from the