"Elizabeth Moon - Sweet Charity" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

never claimed to be an artist, Mirabel thought, stabbing the tip of the quill into the ink-bowl. Not with
anything but a sword, that is. She looked at the list she'd been given. Naturally she was not entrusted
with the invitations to important persons. She hadn't been since the time her version of "Lord Pondicherry
and Lady Cordelia" was misread as "Lard Pound and Laid Coldeels" and delivered to the butcher's.
She was halfway through the list when her old resentment cleared and she noticed the names. Harald
Redbeard? She'd heard that name before, surely. She shook her head and copied it as carefully as she
could. Skyver Twoswords? Again, something tickled her memory then withdrew. Gordamish
Ringwearer? Probably the cavalry units; they recruited all sorts of people, not just the solid peasants and
smalltraders' children who ended up in the real army.



She realized she'd just left the "g" out of Ringwearer, and muttered an oath. That's what thinking did for
you, caused mistakes. It wasn't up to her to decide who got invitations; all she had to do was address the
blasted things. She struggled through Piktush Drakbar, Zertin Dioth, Badaxe Oferbyte, and the rest.



At last, she had her stack finishedтАФsmudged with sweaty thumbprints, slightly rumpled, but finished. She
put them in the basket (noting that it was now half full) and stirred them around. With luck, Primula
wouldn't know who had done which. She hoped that every year.

***

Three days before the ball, Mirabel tugged at the bodice of her green ball gown. Her armor still fit; what
was the matter with this thing?



Of course she could wear a corset. She hated corsets. Just something else to take off, the way she
looked at it. She tugged again, and something ripped.



Perhaps she could get through the ball without raising her arms. No. She liked to dance, and she liked to
dance fast. She pawed through her trunk. The old copper silk still had that chocolate stain down the front
where she'd jogged someone's elbow, and the midnight blue had moth all up the front center panel.



Time for a new gown, then; after all, she'd worn this one four years.

***

Strictly speaking, it was not a costume ball. But it had become customary for guests to dress up in
whatever fanciful outfits they chose. Thus the appearance of a crew of pirates (striped loose trousers,
bucket boots, eye patches), several barechested barbarians, and someone clad mostly in chains and
other bits of uncomfortable-looking metal attachments provoked little comment. They had invitations,
surrendered at the door to a little girl wearing the red cloak of a Ladies' Aid & Armor Society ward, and
that was all that mattered.