"Gregort Maguire - Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maguire Gregory)Past the brewery with its rich active smells, down a lane that leads through a city gate. Out the gate, across a foul canal, up an embankment, through a mess of hedge, and then: the meadow. A few cows are companionably lowing. Ruth is scared of cows, so Iris flies at them and windmills her arms about, and the cows amble away without taking offense. The sisters are alone for the first time since leaving their home in England. They aren't Dutch girls, no matter how well Margarethe had taught Iris essential words and grammar. But they're no longer English girls either, since home has been swept away from them. So for now they're merely alone, but together, as together as they can get. Before the death of Jack Fisher, Iris and Ruth had been no farther from March than the next village over, and that only once, for a fair. What a disaster. The ale had flown too freely and the reticence that masquerades as Christian char ity had collapsed. Men had set down their bowls of ale and taunted Ruth with a stick, saying they were hungry for bacon, and how much would the pig fetch? Iris had snatched that very stick and gone at them, and caused blood to flow, though even with dripping nostrils and split lips the men had fallen against each other in mirth. "The pig and the hound! The hound and the pig!" The Fisher sisters had never gone to the market fair again. Nor had Iris told Margarethe or Jack exactly what had happened, for what would that mean? Just that Ruth would be kept closer to the hearth than ever. Iris has always thought this isn't right. Without question Ruth is an idiot, but she is not a pig. Iris can't think about these things, though; when the memories threaten to return, she has to brush them away. She's left those things behind. She's left England behind, and all it means. Any cursed imp is left Have they come instead to a place of bewitch' ment? Perhaps it only looks like Holland, and that's why the grandfather who was to take care of them is not in his house. Don't be fanciful, says Margarethe's voice in Iris's mind. But Iris can't help it. The mysteries of this place! Whatever could the Girl-Boy of Rotterdam have been? Or Dame Donkey-Jaw? Or what about the changeling child? If this is no longer England, perhaps it's not Holland either. It's the place of story, beginning here, in the meadow of late summer flowers, thriving before the Atlantic storms drive wet and winter upon them all. Iris lectures herself. Be commonsensical. Be good. Deserve the food you'll be fed tonight. She says, "So many varieties. What sorts does he want, do you think?" Ruth plucks a daisy and holds it up. "That's one, and a good one it is," says Iris, "he wants many. Here, Ruth, can you use this knife without stabbing your thumb? If you pull them like that, the leaves are crumpled. Make your cut down here—bend your knees, that's better. Yes, that's a good one. I don't need to approve each choice. All flowers are good ones, Ruth. Yes, that's another nice one." Iris moves away as far as she dares, making sure that Ruth isn't alarmed. Then she moves farther still. She sees an aban-doned apple tree at the edge of the meadow. Though it's crippled with age, there are boughs that can be used as a ladder, and she should be able to step from the apple tree to the limbs of the taller, weedy tree that grows next to it. Iris tucks her dark skirt into the band of her apron strings and puts her precious shoes at an angle against the trunk. She begins to climb. |
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