"Michelle West - Under The Skin" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

came then. And you're here now." Her mother's tears got worse.
"You judge your father harshly, little one. He, too, sought magic and faith. But he
could not build that with your mother; they have hurt each other too much."
"And I'm just supposed to forgive him?"
"No; every magic has its price. He knew what that price would be, and he must pay
it, whether it hurts him or no. Now come; stop standing in the whiskey and let us
continue our walk."
Jane looked at her mother. "Can I - can I come home tonight?"
"You may do as you desire, Jane."
Jane went home after school and found her mother in the kitchen on her knees. Her
left hand was bandaged, and her right was covered by a rubber glove; she was
scrubbing the floor clean.
"Hi, Mom," she said, awkward although she tried not to be.
"Hi, Janie. I just - I dropped a couple of bottles when I was cleaning the shelves."
 "You okay?" Jane said, looking at her mother's hand.
"It's just a sliver. Are you home for dinner tonight?"
"In a couple of hours, then. Took me longer to clean up the mess than I thought."
Jane went up to her room. And as she crossed the threshold she heard whispers,
felt the brush of old cotton and then some stiffer fabric, against her hands. She felt
feathers beneath her cheek, and heard a man's voice humming a lullaby. It was not
her father's voice.
It was the house speaking.
She walked over to the bed, her bed, and lay down stiffly against it, feeling her
arms and legs as if they were far too heavy. And then she listened to the memories of
the house, sinking into them enough to almost see her mother.
She'd never done this before. Had never thought to do it, to question what a house
might see, might be touched by, might explain in its peculiar, observant way. But
now that she knew, she could hear voices that were not her own, see images that
were outside of her day-dreams, her hopes, her fears.
Her mother hadn't dropped those bottles, she threw them. And she'd taken them all
out, for however long it lasted. Emptied them, rinsed them out so they wouldn't
smell, shuffled them under the Pepsi cans in the recycling bin where they might
vanish without remark. Except, of course, Janie took out the recycling boxes.
Sometimes her mother could be so stupid.
God, it was all so stupid. Her mother set eyes on a little white fox, a stupid white
fox, and suddenly she was trying to do all this cleaning up that she'd never have
done for Jane or her father.
Don't be angry with her, a voice said. She does it because she remembers what its
like to be a girl who can dream. Whether she's strong enough to continue to dream
depends on her, but every time you mock her, you strip away her strength. It was the
silver-haired woman. But come, Jane. Tonight you must leave if you are to continue
your journey with me. She beckoned, and Jane sat up. The house was empty, the
room darkened by sunfall. She wanted to be angry at her mother.
She wanted to be angry.
"Janie! Dinner!"
Dinner was quiet. Jane was aware of her mother as if for the first time; she was
seeing beyond what she looked like to what she was at the moment. It was strange.
She always felt stung if her mother laughed at her-but she'd never realized that her
mother could be hurt, too. It was odd. She was almost afraid to say anything.
But her mother was quiet as well, very introspective. It was only when they were