"Dave Luckett - The Girl The Dragon And The Wild Magic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Luckett Dave)

Rhianna got up and washed her hands and face in the basin. She put on her nightgown.

"Mother?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Do you think I'll have to do the year's work all over again?"

Meg sighed. "I don't know, Rhianna. I can't think just now. Go and say good night to your father."

So Rhianna padded out, kissed her father good night, and went to bed. But not to sleep, not at once. She
kept saying the spells and the chants and the lists of spell ingredients over and over to herself, in the hope
that they'd stick, but in between them came the worried look on her father's face and what he had said at
dinner: Too many spells have failed lately.

Including all of Rhianna's spells. Maybe it wasn't all her fault, then. Maybe the magic itself was at fault. Or
just the magic hereabouts. Maybe magic itself was the wrong thing to do. Well, it certainly didn't make
people better, or any easier to like. Think of Mr. Spellwright. And Rory.

Or maybe it was just the wrong thing for her. After all, she might not be suited to using magic at all. Like
Father. He was a smith, and a good one. Using cold iron all the time meant that he could not weave
spells, not even the little ones that most people used, because cold iron and magic were sort of opposites
that canceled each other out. Maybe she could become a lady blacksmith. She fell asleep thinking about
that.



Chapter 3

The next morning, Rhianna lined up outside her classroom with the others. She hadn't slept well. Her
dreams had been about things running away and getting less and less. Sand running out of hourglasses;
water leaking away from dams. And it was Wednesday, and that meant Conjuration, first thing. Rhianna
hated Conjuration. It was worse than all her other subjects. The hand movements had to be done just
right, depending on the phase of the moon and when your birthday was and whether your hair was light
or dark and all sorts of other silly things she could never remember.

So she didn't notice anything when they went in, and only looked around when she heard the class
murmur. Then she saw it. Mrs. Greenapple had washed the spell-board. Mrs. Greenapple only washed
the board just before the holidays, or if someone important was visiting the school. And it was still the
middle of the term.

But the spellboard was washed and the floor had been swept and polished. More than that, Mrs.
Greenapple seemed different. She had to start the opening invocation again, because she said the words
the wrong way round the first time. She was wearing her best cape, too, the one she only wore to the
opening of term and Parents' Night.

There was no Conjuration period, either, not straight away. Instead, Mrs. Greenapple took a firm grasp
on her wand, waited until the class had settled, and then spoke: "Make sure your desks and chairs are
neat, please. If there are any class library books, please put them back on the shelves now."