"Michael Swanwick - Trojan Horse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

her hands. "It's Chartres," she cried, delighted. "The cathedral at Chartres!"



"Mmmmm." Tory teased her down onto the grass floor.



The north rose swelled to fill the hut. It was all angels and doves, kings and prophets, with gold lilies
surrounding the central rosette. Deep and powerful, infused with gloomy light, it lap-dissolved into the
lancet of Saint Anne.



The windows wheeled overhead as the holotape panned down the north transept to the choir, to the
apse, and then up into the ambulatory. Swiftly, then, it cut to the wounded Christ and the Beasts of
Revelation set within the dark spaces of the west rose. The outer circle-the instruments of the
Passion-closed about them.



Elin gasped.



The tape moved down the nave, still brightening, briefly pausing at the Vendome chapel. Until finally the
oldest win-dow, the Notre Dame de la Belle Verriere, blazed in a frenzy of raw glory. A breeze rattled
the ivy, and two leaves fell through the hologram to tap against their skin and slide to the ground.



The Belle Verriere faded in the darkening light, and the colors ran and were washed away by a noiseless
gust of rain.



Elin let herself melt into the grass, drained and lazy, not caring if she never moved again. Beside her Tory
chuckled, playfully tickled her ribs. "Do you love me? Hey, tell me you love me."



"Stop!" She grabbed his arms and bit him in the side-a small, nipping bite, more threat than harm-ran a
tongue over his left nipple. "Hey, listen, I hit the sack with you a half hour after we met. What do you
want?"
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"Want?" He broke her hold, rolled over on top of her, pinioning her wrists above her head. "I want you