"Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Tales 3 - Love and War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parkinson Dan)

Aron reached over and patted his daughter's soft, fair
hair, which felt, strangely, a little damp. Again, he gave this
little thought. For the rest of the day, he whistled at his
loom while Petal hummed in her front garden - which,
actually, wasn't growing as well in the constant shade of the
woods as it had in Gateway.
In any case, for all his outward pleasantness, Aron, that
very night, tossed and turned uncomfortably in his bed,
certain once more that his daughter had indeed disappeared
the previous night. And those puddles popped into his mind,
perplexing him.
It was no use. Aron jumped out of bed. He had to check
up on his daughter. But he didn't want her to know, for then
she'd be truly angry at him. So he tiptoed ever so quietly to
her room.
She was gone.
Aron grew frantic. He bolted out of the cottage. But
before he could call his daughter's name, he saw in the
moonlight that sprinkled through the tree cover Petal
herself, dressed in her flowing white gown, just
disappearing silently between two enormous tulip trees.
Again, Aron was about to call to her, but he stopped
himself. Was she meeting someone? He had to know. He
decided to follow and catch her in the act. He rushed back
into his cottage, grabbed his stick, and hurried out to catch
up to his daughter.
He passed between the two tulip trees and found himself
on a path, one that he had not even known existed. It was
narrow, virtually covered with fern fronds, but it was
illuminated clearly by the full moon, for there was a slit in
the tree canopy that followed the path exactly.
Aron failed to see his daughter, but he walked along the
bending path, confident it would take him to her. Using his
walking stick for its intended purpose, he proceeded as
quickly as he could without making too much noise. All
around him, just a step away to his right or left, was the
gloomy forest. Only those trees nearest the path were partly
lit, their dark and gray trunks marking his way. Behind
them, the trees were cast in shadow. And farther from the
path still, the trees were in total blackness.
 The croaking of frogs grew louder, and soon he came to
a small glade, in the middle of which was a pond. Petal was
standing on its bank near an old beaver dam, her long white
gown bathed in the sky's ghostly light. For several moments
she did nothing but gaze at the black water, upon whose
surface floated many lily pads, their white blossoms open to
the moonshine.
Then she softly called, "My love, my love, take me to
your home."
At that, some of the lily pads were jostled from beneath.