"Dean Wesley Smith - The Last Garden In Time's Window" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Dean Wesley)

under me to keep from kicking Grandma.
Behind Grandpa's chair was a tiny kitchen, beyond that a bathroom I could barely even turn around
in, and then a bedroom taken up completely by a queen-sized bed. A closet with a few drawers was
across from the bathroom and what few clothes the two of them had were still hanging there.
I hesitated before pulling the drape aside and going in to the bedroom where they had died. I still
didn't understand how they could have lived like this. My single dorm room in college had had more
room. Yet they never seemed to be hurting for money, and had no desire, even during the days I had
worked for Microsoft and had a ton of money, to take my offer of moving them to a house. Grandma
had just smiled every time I had offered, patted me on the hand, and said, "We're fine here, dear. We
have more than enough room. Thank you."
So after a few years I had quit offering, then when the magic started to show itself, Dirk appeared
at my door in Seattle, took me under his wing, told me that what was happening to me wasn't my
imagination, or a deadly disease, and convinced me to move to Scottsdale to train and learn control. He
flat-out told me that I had hidden magic talents and Microsoft was no place for me.
So I quit and went with him.
Now, six months later, a day after my thirty-fifth birthday, both my grandparents were found dead
on their bed.
I took a deep breath of the stuffy air and carefully pulled aside the curtain that sheltered the small
bedroom. Two indents were clear on the bed. One short and not very deep: Grandma. One a little taller
and smashed into the mattress: Grandpa.
The police were not talking to me at all. The paper had said they had died of unknown causes
which were under investigation. But the trailer had been open for me to come and go as I wanted. And I
saw no signs of an investigation, no police tape, nothing. Clearly the police thought they died of some
old-age thing and didn't care.
But to me nothing made sense. Granted they were both in their late eighties, but both were healthy
and active.
I stared at the two body marks for a moment, then turned back to the front part of the trailer. If I
was going to discover what killed them, I would have to start slow and move carefully and remember
every ounce of magic training Dirk had given me so far.
I moved so that I stood in the middle of the tiny living room and faced my grandmother's chair. Then
spelling the word "d-i-s-c-o-v-e-r," I sat down.
For me, magic always started with a tingling in my fingers that quickly ran up my hands into my
head, making me so dizzy that I had to close my eyes. It was what had sent me to the Seattle hospital half
a dozen times, and what Dirk said had led him to me. He told me that after a few years of practice, the
"ignition effects" as he called the tingling and dizziness, would go away.
I closed my eyes as the tingling raced up my arms and into my head.
Then it was gone, much quicker than normal.
I found myself in a wonderful-smelling kitchen. I knew, intellectually, that I was actually still sitting in
Grandma's chair in the trailer, but around me was a massive kitchen that was all white and stainless steel.
Someone had been baking and the smell of cherry pie filled the air. Through the kitchen window I could
see blue sky and pine trees.
I walked around the room, not touching anything. The place looked familiar. The table and six
chairs against one wall covered by a checkered red-and-white tablecloth finally gave me the clue. This
was a vastly expanded version of my grandmother's kitchen back in their old home. They had owned the
home for forty years before selling it and moving into the small trailer. I could remember, as a kid, sitting
at the kitchen table while Grandma baked. Clearly, my magic had brought me back to one of my own
memories. This wasn't going to help me.
I opened my eyes.
As if someone had snapped off a television picture, I was back in the trailer.
I stood and moved over to Grandfather's chair. Spelling the words "d-i-s-c-o-v-e-r