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

acquire a talent?тАЭ

Brady stared at the plate and mysterious box. Fifty dollars was a lot of money, but he already had twenty
set aside for a trip home. Page did say he had an eye for composition. And if a man with an eye for
composition, a lot of drive and a little talent took Daguerre's Box all over the world, he would be able to
send his memories back to the people left behind.

Brady smiled. тАЬYes,тАЭ he said. тАЬI'll take your class.тАЭ

He would postpone the trip to see his parents, and raise the rest of the money somehow. Page whirled
away from the window as if Brady had betrayed him. But Brady didn't care. When they got home, he
would explain it all. And it was so simple. He had another improvement to make.

1840

That night, Brady dreamed. He stood in a large cool room, darkened and hidden in shadows. He
bumped into a wall and found himself touching a ribbed columnтАФa Doric column, he believed. He took
cautious steps forward, stumbled, then caught himself on a piece of painted wood. His hands slid up the
rough edges until he realized he was standing beside a single-horse carriage. He felt his way around to the
back. The carriage box had no windows, but the back stood wide open. He climbed inside. The faint
rotten-egg smell of sulphur rose. He bumped against a box and glass rattled. A wagon filled with
equipment. He climbed out, feeling like he was snooping. There was more light now. He saw a wall
ahead of him, covered with portraits.

The darkness made the portraits difficult to see, but he thought he recognized the light and shadow work
of a Daguerre portrait and yetтАФand yetтАФsomething differed, distorted, perhaps, by the dream. And he
knew he was in a dream. The cool air was too dry, the walls made of a foreign substance, the lights
(what he could see of them), glass-encased boxes on the ceiling. The portraits were of ghastly things:
dead men and stark fields, row after row of demolished buildings. On several, someone had lettered his
last name in flowing white script.

тАЬThey will make you great,тАЭ said a voice behind him. He turned, and saw a woman. At least he thought it
was a woman. Her hair was cropped above her ears, and she wore trousers.

тАЬWho will make me great?тАЭ he asked.

тАЬThe pictures,тАЭ she said. тАЬPeople will remember them for generations.тАЭ He took a step closer to her, but
she smiled and touched his palm. The shadows turned black and the dream faded into a gentle, restful
sleep.

1849

Brady leaned against the hand-carved wooden railing. The candles on the large chandelier burned steady,
while the candelabras flickered in the breezes left by the dancing couples. A pianist, a violinist and a cello
playerтАФall, Mr. Handy had assured him, very well respectedтАФplayed the newest European dance, the
waltz, from one corner of the huge ballroom. Mothers cornered their daughters along the wall, approving
dance cards, and shaking fans at impertinent young males. The staircase opened into the ballroom, and
Brady didn't want to cross the threshold. He had never been to a dance like this before. His only
experiences dancing had been at gatherings Page had taken him to when he first arrived in New York.
He knew none of the girls, except Samuel Handy's daughter Juliet, and she was far too pretty for Brady