"Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 2 - The Golem's Eye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stroud Jonathan)

"Oh, Bertilak!"

"Oh, Amaryllis, my Swan of Araby!"

The genie strode forward and enfolded the slave girl in a muscular embrace. At this point the
ache in Kitty's bottom became too much to bear. She shifted in her seat.

Genie and girl now began an intricate dance, involving much swirling of clothing and extending of
limbs. There was a smattering of applause from the audience. The orchestra set to with renewed
gusto. Kitty yawned like a cat, slumped lower and rubbed an eye with the palm of one hand. She felt
for the paper bag, tipped out the last few salted peanuts and, cupping them to her mouth, crunched
unenthusiastically.

The anticipation that always came before a job was upon her, digging like a knife into her side.
That was normal, she expected it. But layered on top of this was the boredom of sitting through the
endless play. No doubt, as Anne had said, it would provide a perfect alibiтАФbut Kitty would rather
have been working out her tension on the streets, keeping moving, dodging the patrols, not witnessing
such awful pap.

On stage, Amaryllis, the Chiswick missionary lass turned slave girl, was now singing a song in
which (once again) she expressed her unremitting passion for the genie lover in her arms. She did so
with such force on the high notes that the hair rippled on Bertilak's head and his earrings spun. Kitty
winced and glanced along the shrouded silhouettes in front until she came to the outlines of Fred and
Stanley. Both looked highly attentive, eyes trained on the stage. Kitty curled her lip. Presumably they
were admiring Amaryllis.

Just so long as they remained alert.

Kitty's gaze wandered down into the well of darkness by her side. At her feet was the leather
bag. The sight made her stomach lurch; she closed her eyes, instinctively patting her coat to feel the
reassuring hardness of the knife. Relax... all would be fine.

Would the interval never come? She raised her head and surveyed the dusky reaches of the
auditorium, where, on either side of the stage, the magicians' boxes hung, heavy with gold fretwork
and thick red curtains to shield the occupants from the commoners' eyes. But every magician in town
had seen this play years ago, long before it had opened to the sensation-hungry masses. Today the
curtains were drawn back, the boxes empty.

Kitty glanced at her wrist, but it was too dark to make out the time. Doubtless there were many
forlorn partings, cruel ravishments, and joyful reunions left to endure before the interval. And the
audience would love every minute of them. Like sheep, they thronged here night after night, year after
year. Surely all of London had seen Swans of Araby by now, many people more than once. But still
the buses puttered in from the provinces, bringing new customers to gasp at all the shabby glamour.

"Darling! Be silent!" Kitty nodded with approval. Nice one, Bertilak. He'd cut her off in the
middle of her aria.

"What is it? What do you sense that I cannot?"

"Hist! Do not speak. We are in peril..." Bertilak rotated his noble profile. He looked high, he