"Gregort Maguire - Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maguire Gregory)

commonest weeds die within hours, and I need to look at them regularly. Is she capable of this? Good.
Perhaps you—your name, your name in one word and no narrative—"

"Margarethe," she says, and lifts her head, "Margarethe Fisher, of the good Haarlem family ten Broek."
"Margarethe, if you attend, perhaps I can teach you to grind minerals for me and mix them with oil and
powders, to make my colors."

"I am clever with grinding herbs and peppercorns and roots. Minerals and powders are as nothing to
me." "Good. And the girls, they are called—?" "My elder daughter, Ruth, and the smart one, Iris." "Not
the usual Dutch names," he says, amused. "They were born in the fens of Cambridgeshire. Their English
father wasn't inclined to the names of saints and martyrs," says Margarethe, "so the choices were few.
When we saw how our first child was spoiled, we named her Ruth, which I'm told means sorrow for
one's own faults. Then we chose to name the next daughter Iris, with the hope it might encourage her to
grow in beauty like a flower." She looks at Iris and her lips twitch. "As you can see, our hopes were
badly abused."

THE OBSCURE CHILD

"Iris is the smart one," he says.

"Smart enough for what you need, I'd guess." Is Mar-garethe leering a little? Surely not.

"For Iris, a difficult task," says Gingerbeard. "I'd like her to sit on a chair in the north light for hours at a
time so I may observe her. She must sit without fidging, without speaking. She must keep her mouth shut.
I will draw her in red chalk on parchment, and perhaps paint her if I'm pleased by my drawings."

Margarethe can't help herself. She says, "For what possible reason could you wish to render the likes of
her?" Margarethe puts her hands on Iris's shoulder. The gesture is partly loving but partly a negotiation.
And why not, Iris admits, when we can barely reach from one loaf to the next?

The painter replies, "My reasons are my own. Decide and answer me, for I have no more time for this
right now. Tell me, yes or no."

"Your name, before we come in your door and accept your kind offer."

But he laughs. "My name can't seal a deal, my name doesn't increase the value of my canvases. My name
has no place in a world in which Lucas Cranach and Memling and the Florentines show their paintings!
Even in my own time I am anonymous, not quite known as the Master of the Dordrecht Altarpiece. That
effort is much admired, but I'm not remembered as its creator. Just call me the Master, and my cock's
pride will be assuaged. Will you enter or no?"

They troop inside. The smells in the studio are slightly offensive. Iris picks out the pungency of sappy,
new-milled

wood, the resin-scented oil, an eggy stink of sulfur, male sweat.

She stops hearing the clucking of her mother and the hulking shuffle of her sister. Iris looks at the works
once her eyes have become accustomed to the inside light.

The panels are limned in red or black line. Some of them are worked with an olive or a sepia wash. A