"M Rickert - The Girl Who Ate Butterflies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rickert Mary)

realization of the woman's disappearance that same morning. She wished, for a
long time after, that she had paid her more attention. She remembers a vague
slash of red lips, dark hair, heavy perfume in church. But she cannot remember
more than this. At this point, she can barely remember him.

Emma reaches in her pocket. She pulls out the lighter. She flicks the top with
her thumb, expertly. Emma has a secret. She is the girl who loves fire. She used
to start fires to make her father come. No matter what time of day or night, how
impossible it was for him to be home for supper, how terribly too tired he was
for her or her mother, if there was a fire, he was there. Vibrant. Heroic. She
used to watch in awe this strange aspect of him, the strength of his stance, the
sternness of his face, his power. Now Emma reaches down. With a quick movement
she brushes the flame across the grass in front of her. It sizzles, small as a
stitch, but she watches it grow in the tangle of grass. She runs quickly to the
edge of woods as the smoke and flame rise behind her, like phantom snakes and
devils' tongues.

She runs to the trees at the edge of the meadow and climbs one. The bark
scratches her fingers and she tears a pant leg in herrush. But she barely
notices such minor pain. Though it has been two years since he left them, it is
at moments like these that she feels closest to her father. There is the same
rush of excitement, the same heat of anticipation that used to bring him. Now
she can relish the feeling. It is almost like having him back again. The meadow
burns. A late afternoon breeze pushes it farther. Emma feels the sting of smoke
in her eyes. Strains to hear the sound of sirens. Emma climbs higher. She can
see the dirt street, the distant houses. Fire snakes through the grass below.
Her eyes sting. Her throat tightens. Even the tree is hot. She feels the pores
of her skin open and tears weep out. Her hands tighten to hold the limb, her
fingers strain like bird claws, the bones pressed against the skin. Smoke fills
her lungs with pain. The flames reach for her. She screams. She feels she
screams but she hears no sound other than fire.

Suddenly. He is there, in his suspenders and baggy yellow fire pants. He stands
at the edge of the limb. Graceful as a star balanced on its point. He is saying
her name over and over again. Emma, Emma, Emma. He extends one hand to her; with
the other, he parts the sky. She can see just past him a blue and gentle day at
the edge of summer. "Emma, Emma," he says. "Come." She stands. She stretches her
hand to touch his. The limb creaks. "Come," he says. He parts the smoke and
flame with one hand. Reaches for her with the other. She strains to touch him.
She hears a sound like a branch breaking and suddenly she is falling. Falling.
On fire. Where? In the blur of heat and pain she forms this final thought.
Where? Where are you now?

II

It is a long winter. It snows every day and the air is brittle. When the sun
shines, it sharpens the points of ice that hang from the eaves like daggered
teeth.

Lantanna's mother carves a graveyard angel for the girl who died in the fire.