"Michelle West - The Memory of Stone" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

wood; did not choose the oak that came from the forests a few miles outside of the village.
requested instead a red, hard wood, something riven from the heart of a giant tree.
She was so excited when the merchant placed it in her hands; she was absorbed by the
of wood, its rough grain, the depth of its unstained color. She wanted to rush back to
workshop, to begin to work right away.
But she heard its voice, wood's voice, and it bade her wait. Voice? No, not voice, fo
the words it spoke were not quite words, and the wood offered her no more than that; s
could not speak to it, could ask it no question and receive no answer of use. But she could f
it in the palms of her hands as if it were a living heart; could see it move, shrinking in size u
the truth of its shape was revealed. She waited.
Four days later, at the height of summer, during the longest day of the year, she bega
carve. To cut. To burn. She worked until the sun had begun to touch the colors of the
worked until the first of the stars was bright.
And when she was finished, she saw that her mother was asleep in the great chair in
corner; that the lamp had been lit and rested on the table beside that chair; that the work
itself was empty.
She was very, very tired, but she tucked the box away, hiding it beneath the heavy c
that protected the gems and the metals from sawdust and insects. Then she woke her mother
together they went home.
The next day was the day that changed her life.
She came to the workshop later than she usually did; her mother had had a great dea
difficulty waking her, and was concerned that she might have fetched ill. But Cessaly w
running a fever; she didn't cough or sneeze, didn't shake much, didn't throw upтАФand in the
her mother had relented and accompanied her to the jeweler's house.
There, shaking off lethargy, Cessaly ran inside, ran to her workbench, and grabbed the
she had made. It was simple, perhaps too simple for a man like Master Sivold. But it was
without adornment; she had carved a pattern around the lip of the lid that made the
between lid and box almost invisible. Only with care could she see it herself.
 "What's that, then, Cessaly?" he said, as she approached him.
"Last month you said that you'd run out of space for the thingsтАФthe things that
can't bear to part with."
"Did I?"
She nodded. "And IтАФyou've done so much for me here, you've shown me so m
new things, you've let me make what IтАФwhat I have to. IтАФ"
His brow rose. "Is this for me?"
"Yes. I made it. For you. Only for you," she added. "It's not for Gerrald. And anywa
doesn't matter if he does see it. It won't do himтАФor anyone elseтАФany good."
He smiled and held out his hand. "It's very elegant, but a little
too plain for Gerrald's taste. Or for his customers." He lifted it, examining the car
around its side. "Cessaly, what is this?"
His fingers brushed the trailing strokes of letters, letters hidden in the movement of lea
the trailing fall of their branches.
"Your name," she told him.
"My name?" He frowned. And the frown deepened. "Why do you say that, child? It doe
say Sivold."
"It doesn't?" Her eyes widened then, with panic and fear. She reached for the box, an
must have seen the horror on her face, for his frown eased. But he did not return it to her ha
"My eyes are not nearly as good as they once were, and your work here is so deli
child. Perhaps I am misreading." He shook himself, and the smile returned to his face. "I d
know that you knew how to spell or write."