"Elrod, P.N. - Jonathan Barrett 02 - Death and the Maiden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

"Are you so sure? Then what is it that turns a tiny seed into a tree? Is that not a kind of magic?"
"Now you're speaking of science or philosophy."
He shook his head. "I speak only of what's been said. If I choose to ascribe all that has happened to you to magic, then it is magic."
"Or superstition."
"That comes in only when one is afraid or ignorant. I am neither, but I have adopted an explanation that is tolerable to me."
"Maybe I should adopt it for myself, as well. Nothing else I've considered has come close to explaining things so handily. Especially things like this." I touched my miraculously healed arm.
"And this?" he asked, his hand hovering over a small mirror that lay facedown on one of the shelves.
"Yes, that, too. You can get rid of it, y'know." Since my change, I'd found that particular vanity item to be singularly useless, not to mention unsettling. I'd more or less known what to expect, but it had still given me a sharp turn to look into a mirror and not see a damned thing. I'd briefly and irrationally worried that that was what I'd become: "a damned thing." Father and I had discussed it thoroughly, for I was very upset at the time, but we'd been unable to explain the phenomenon. Perhaps Jericho was right and it was magic.
"As you wish," he said, tucking the offending glass into a pocket. "Does Mr. Barrett know about the flying? Or Miss Elizabeth?"
"Not yet. I'll tell them all about it later. The news won't grow stale for waiting. And I promise to take your advice and be more discreet."
"I'm relieved to hear that."
After a moment, I added, somewhat shyly, "It's ... not really flying, y'know."
He waited for me to go on.
"I sort of float upon the air like a leaf. But I can move against the wind or with it as I choose."
He thought that over for a long time. "And what is it like?"
A grin and a soft laugh bubbled right out of me. "It's absolutely wonderful!"
And so it was. Last night I'd done the impossible and broken away from the grasp of the earth to soar in the sky freer than any bird. It was surely the most remarkable portion of the legacy I'd come into since my . . . death.
Or rather, my change.
The details of that particular story—of my death and escape from the grave—have been recounted elsewhere. Let it suffice for now that upon my return, I soon discovered I'd acquired the same characteristics that governed the waking life of a certain Miss Nora Jones, a lady with whom I had shared a very intimate liaison.
Like her, I was now able to influence the very minds and thoughts of anyone around me, thus allowing me to resume my former life with my family almost as though nothing had ever happened. I had learned the secret of how to heal swiftly and completely. And I was able to fly ... so to speak. Though I'd never actually witnessed Nora indulging in such a display, I had no doubt that she was capable of doing it, since my own condition now so completely mirrored her own.
Mirrors. Yes, well, you've heard about them already.
Like her, I was also unable to bear sunlight, which might be considered a heavy burden, but for the fact that my eyes were so improved. The night had become my day; the stars and moon my welcome companions in the sky. When the sun was up, I slept—or tried to; I was having some difficulties there, but more on that later.
My strength was that of a young Hercules, and my other senses enjoyed similar improvements. Each evening I discovered a new delight to the ear, a fresh appreciation of touch, and, though I was not required to breathe regularly unless I chose to speak, I could pick out and identify a scent almost as well as one of our own hunting hounds. Taste had also undergone considerable alteration, though I never exercised it upon what might be considered a normal meal.
For, like Nora, I had come to subsist solely upon blood for my sustenance.
But again, more on that later.
"What are you writing, little brother?" asked Elizabeth, peering across the library as she walked in. Her nightly practice at her spinet had ended, but I'd been so absorbed in my work that I hadn't noticed when the music stopped.
"A letter to Cousin Oliver," I replied.
The early part of the evening had passed pleasantly enough amid familial congratulations on my recovery. Diverting attention from myself, I had given all the credit to Dr. Beldon, much to his great enjoyment. Father and Elizabeth, who, along with Jericho, knew the full truth about my changed nature, required a more detailed account from me, which I'd promised, but had yet to provide. By subtle gesture and with a well-placed word or two, I gave them to understand that my healing was connected to my change, and thus not a topic for general discussion. We'd quietly arranged to talk later. As I had no
interest in Mother's card game and was too restless to read, I'd taken sanctuary in the library to deal with some necessary correspondence.
"But you just sent one only . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"I know, but much has occurred since my last missive."
She thought about that awhile, then came over to stand next to Father's desk, where I happened to be working. "I have something for you," she said, pulling a flat packet from her skirt pocket.
I instantly recognized it. "My journal!"
She gave it over. "I kept it from your things when Mother was having your room cleaned out. I was afraid she'd either throw it away or read it herself, and I didn't think you'd have liked either of those choices."
"You're right, I wouldn't. Thank you."
"I didn't read it," she added.
This surprised me, not because Elizabeth was a prying sort of person, but because at the time she'd thought me dead. "Why not?"
"I couldn't bring myself to. These are your words and your thoughts, I just couldn't bear the idea of reading them so soon after .. . anyway, I wanted only to keep them safe. From her. I don't know what I hated most, her utter coldness over you or the way she ransacked your room like a bloody vulture."
Mother again. "It's all over now."
She put her hand on mine. "Yes, thank God."
"It would have been all right if you had read it. There's nothing in here that I wouldn't have minded sharing with you and Father."
She smiled at that. "But you're back and there's no need, is there?"
"May there never be another," I solemnly intoned, putting my hand over my heart.
That brought out another smile, which was most pleasing. Her good humor and mine restored, I picked up my pen and regarded the sheet of paper before me, wondering what to put down next.
"Mind if I keep you company?" From one of the desk drawers she pulled out a penknife and some goose quills.
"I should welcome it," I said absently.
Apparently Elizabeth was prepared to wait for Father to join us before calling for my promised explanation. Taking a chair
next to the desk and close to my candle, she began carving a point on one of the quills. "Are you going to tell Oliver about what's happened to you?"
A brief laugh escaped me. "Hardly, or he'd think that the Fonteyn half of my blood had finally boiled my brain. Did I ever mention to you that tour we took of Bedlam?"
"In noxious detail." She steadily sliced away on a quill, pausing only to narrowly inspect the results of her work.