"James Alan Gardner - League of Peoples 02 - Commitment Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner James Alan)

law that didn't make sense to her.
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"I have to know what you're going to be," she'd say. "It would be a disaster if we both chose the same
sex and could never be married."

More and more, I didn't think that would be a disaster at all. It was too cruel to say out loud, but that
response clattered around in my brain every time she asked how much I loved her. She asked the
question a lot; I thought my unspoken answer just as often.

I'd outgrown her. I was famous throughout the Bruise Peninsula, and well paid for my music: a goat for
an evening, a sheep for a day, a cow for an entire weekend. When Cappie wanted to tag along on my
out-of-town performances, I discouraged her. Being seen with her embarrassed me. Her love songs and
attempts at being wanton stirred nothing in me but pity—the pity you feel for a crippled old dog that still
tries to catch rabbits.

I will hold your hand through fall.

Though the sun damps down its glow,

Our love will fill us.

Our love will fill us.

The song ended. I wanted to scream back, "Stop lying to yourself!"... but of course I didn't. It would
only bring Cappie thrashing through the marsh to ask what I meant, or to demand that we talk about our
future before it was too late. That was the last thing I wanted. Every talk about our future forced me to
invent new ways to dodge her questions.

On top of that, we were both on Commitment Eve vigils and forbidden to see another human being till
dawn. Cappie might ignore the law if it didn't suit her, but I wanted to do things right. I had to avoid
confrontation, and that meant playing up to Cappie for one more evening.

She would be sweat-trickling now in the darkness, waiting for me to answer her song. I had no stomach
for singing back to her, but I could always play my violin. Its sound would carry clearly to her, and I
wouldn't have to worry about her hearing the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. A simple tune would do:
"Stars in the Hottest Black" came to mind, a song that felt dreamy and romantic but never actually
mentioned the word "love." Besides, it was appropriate—the stars were out in abundance, smeared
across the summer sky like gems in Mistress Night's hand. I lifted my bow above the strings, inhaled
before the downsweep, and...

...heard another violin begin to play somewhere deeper in the marsh.

I was so startled I dropped my bow. It bounced against the strings with a soft twang and fell to the dirt
at my feet. I snatched it up again quickly, as if someone might steal it.

The player out in the marsh was good.