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

few have been taken further, the solid forms of human beings beginning to emerge from the gloom of the
Master's preparations. Scraps of paper, scratched with silvery ink, are pinned to the edges of
panels—sketches, she can see, of what the finished work might include.

The sketches are largely of people unclothed. Women
and men alike.

Iris grabs her mother's hand and points wordlessly. Mar-garethe sets her jaw and considers the situation.
At length she says, in a voice intended to be agreeable, "Master, is my daughter to sit undraped for you?"

"I am a painter, not a monster."

Eight or nine pieces in process, or pieces started and abandoned; Iris can't tell. Figures who are naked in
the sketches appear clothed in the finished works.

Iris stares in distress at her mother. Behind the Master's back Margarethe makes a face at Iris that
means: First we eat, then we refuse. Caution, daughter! But Margarethe goes on to remark, "We are in a
Roman chapel, full of idols. In England few would sanction such blasphemy anymore. Does all of this
painted beauty serve any purpose?"

"Who can say what purpose beauty serves? But at least the Roman Catholics used to pay well for work
that inspires their

THE OBSCURE CHILD

devotions," says the Master, hunting through a pile of brushes for one to serve in the task at hand. "Back
when the Roman Catholics were more than merely tolerated in this land."

"I see the Virgin in blue and scarlet; I see the Christ like a fat Dutch baby raised on cheese. I notice
angels everywhere," says Margarethe dismissively.

"I paint my devils, dwarves, and depraved in a separate room," says the Master, waving a hand. "The
door to which I keep locked. Not superstitious, I, but nor do I court the wrath of God any more than I
need do."

Iris wants to ask: Do you paint imps, thwarties, sting' demons? The kind that run with soundless howling
at the heels of mobs, egging them on? But she can't speak about this; her mouth won't collaborate with
her mind.

Margarethe begins to arrange pots on the table in order of size. "Get on through to the house, don't
handle my things," the Master says, "out back, go on! Be useful with pastry and broom and boiling water!
Go to the marketplace and find a healthy fish for my dinner! Get out of my way!"

"What shall I use for coin, Master?" says Margarethe.

"My name," he says.

"The Master of Debt?" she says.

"Schoonmaker," he answered, "but the Master will do. It better do."