"Nancy Springer - Isle 03 - The Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

had already chosen the goods: a soft silk, dusky rose with a thread of gold, well fit to bring out the color
of Meg's thin cheeks and the lights in her muted hair. The old woman held it up, and Meg stroked it
speechlessly. "What sort of dress do ye want out of this, now?" the seamstress asked her.
"I know nothing of it," Meg faltered. "I have never had such a dress."



"Will ye leave it to me, then?"

"Ay, surely." It did not matter, Meg thought, what sort of dress she wore. She had never known a dress
to flatter her.

"Ye will trust me in this." There was something gentle in the Gypsy's voice, and Meg looked at her and
smiled.

"Ay, indeed* I will. But you will have to work hard, Grandmother, to have it done in time."

"Ay, even so. But 'twill be done, little daughter."

The evening of the dance, Trevyn rode Arundel out through the frosty night to fetch Meg. The stars
glowed clear as a thousand candles, and the night was full of whispering, jostling light. Over the snow the
square of the cottage window shone like a beacon, near even from afar. At long last Trevyn reached it,
and beams from within picked out Arundel's form, silver as a spirit of the night. Trevyn found the door
and stepped inside. Then he stopped, thunderstruck. A shining sprite awaited him.

Meg's dress made no effort to conceal her thinness; quite the opposite. Tiny tucks drew the fabric snug
over her small round breasts, then released it to fall in soft, clinging folds over her waist and hips. Her
skirt swept the floor, and long sleeves embraced her slender arms nearly to her fingers. Only her neck
was bared, and the tender curve of her collarbone below. Somewhere she had got delicate slippers to
peep from under her skirt. She was lovely, and she knew it. Her eyes glowed as warm as the firelight.
She met Trevyn's stare almost merrily, then turned to fetch her old brown mantle. He stopped her and
took off his. bright cloak of royal blue, putting it around her shoulders and fastening it with his golden
brooch that bore the Sun Kings' emblem.

"Ye must be the hard one to keep in cloaks!" whispered Meg. Trevyn restrained his smile.

"I will have her back to you before midnight," he told Brock Woodsby, and they departed.

Meg moved through the evening in a happy trance. Any girl in Lee would gladly have taken her place,
but their envy could not taint her with foolish triumph; it was Trevyn himself who lit the flame of her joy.
He watched her, talked with her, danced only with her, guiding her through the circling patterns of the
courtly carole. Megan could not hide her love



this night. It glowed in her wide eyes, misty brown as a forest vista. Trevyn looked, and saw, and Megan
felt quite certain that something answered her gaze in his. They drifted away from the dancers to the dim
reaches of the great hall, and they scarcely noticed at first when the stately notes of lute and viol faltered
to a stop.