"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - The Gallery of His Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

тАЬGood Lord, William, how far away is this man's home?тАЭ
тАЬHe's not just any man,тАЭ Page said, shaking the water off his legs. тАЬHe's a painter, and a damn fine one.тАЭ

Brady smiled. Page was a painter himself and had, a few months earlier, opened a studio below their
joint apartment. Brady helped with the rent on the studio as a repayment for Page's help in moving Brady
from the farm. Being a clerk at A. T. Stewart's largest store was an improvement over farm lifeтАФthe
same kind of improvement that Brady's father had made. Only Brady wasn't going to stop there. Page
had promised to help by showing Brady how to paint. While Brady had an eye for composition, he
lacked the firm hand, the easy grace of a portraitist. Page had been polite; he hadn't said that Brady was
hopeless. But they both knew that Mathew B. Brady would never make his living with a paintbrush in his
hand.

Brady braced himself against a wooden building as he stepped over a submerged portion of sidewalk.
тАЬYou haven't said what this surprise is.тАЭ

тАЬI don't know what the surprise is. Samuel simply said that he had learned about it in France and that we
would be astonished.тАЭ Page slipped into a thin alley between buildings and then pulled open a door.
Brady followed, and found himself staring up a dark flight of stairs. Page was already halfway up, his wet
shoe squeaking with each step. Brady gripped the railing and took the stairs two at a time.

Page opened the door, sending light across the stairs. Brady reached the landing just as Page bellowed,
тАЬSamuel!тАЭ Brady peered inside, nearly choking on the scent of linseed and turpentine.

Large windows graced the walls, casting dusty sunlight on a room filled with canvases. Dropcloths
covered most of the canvases and some of the furniture scattered about. A desk, overflowing with
papers, stood under one window. Near that a large wooden box dwarfed a rickety table. A
stoop-shouldered long-haired man braced the table with one booted foot.

тАЬOver here, Page, over here. Don't dawdle. Help me move this thing. The damn table is about to
collapse.тАЭ

Page scurried across the room, bent down and grabbed an edge of the box. The man picked up the
other side and led the way to his desk. He balanced the box with one hand and his knee while his other
hand swept the desk clean. They set the box down and immediately the man pulled out a handkerchief
and wiped away the sweat that had dripped into his bushy eyebrows.

тАЬI meant to show you in a less dramatic fashion,тАЭ he said, then looked up. Brady whipped his hat off his
head and held it with both hands. The man had sharp eyes, eyes that could see right through a person,
clear down to his dreams.

тАЬWell?тАЭ the man said.

Brady nodded. He wouldn't be stared down. тАЬI'm Mathew B. Brady, sir.тАЭ

тАЬSamuel F. B. Morse.тАЭ Morse tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and clasped his hands
behind his back. тАЬYou must be the boy Page has been telling me about. He assumes you have some sort
of latent talent.тАЭ

Brady glanced at Page. Page blushed, the color seeping through the patches of skin still visible through