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

Though slow, Ruth is a good daughter. Today, however, hunger rules her. She can't break from
Margarethe's hold, but she kicks out and catches the corner of the rickety table on which the pears are
piled. The vendor curses and dives, too late. The pears fall and roll in gimpy circles. Other women laugh,
but uneasily, afraid that this big little girl will overturn their displays. "Mind your cow!" barks the vendor,
scrabbling on her hands and knees.

Margarethe looses a hand toward Ruth's face, but Ruth is twisting too fast. She backs up, away from the
stall, against the front wall of a house. Margarethe's slap falls weakly, more sound than sting. She hits
Ruth again, harder. Ruth's bleat mounts to a shriek, her head striking the bricks of the house. A ground
floor window in the house swings open, just next to Ruth. A treble voice rings out from within. It might be
boy's or girl's. It's a word of exclamation—perhaps the

THE OBSCURE CHILD

child has seen Ruth topple the pears? Heads turn in the marketplace, while Ruth twists toward the young
voice and Margarethe grabs a firmer hold. Iris finds herself scooping forward, pear-ward, while all eyes
are elsewhere. In another moment she too has swiveled her head to look.

She sees a girl, perhaps a dozen years old, maybe a little more? It's hard to tell. The child is half hidden
by a cloth hanging in the window, but a shaft of light catches her. The late afternoon light that gilds. The.
market stops cold at the sight of half the face of a girl in a starched collar, a smudge of fruit compote
upon her cheek.

The girl has hair as fine as winter wheat; in the attention of the sun, it's almost painful to look at. Though
too old for such nonsense, she clutches something for comfort or play. Her narrowed eyes, when she
peers about the curtain's edge, are seen to be the blue of lapis lazuli or the strongest cornflower. Or like
the old enamel that Iris saw once in a chapel ornament, its shine worn off prematurely. But the girl's eyes
are cautious, or maybe depthless, as if they've been torn from the inside out by tiny needles and pins.

A woman's voice behind the child, coming from deep inside the house. The market is still. Why are the
citizens so transfixed? "Clara?" says the inside voice.

Margarethe clamps Ruth's forearms tightly. The girl in the window cranes, watching Ruth shudder,
judging Ruth's nonsense syllables. The girl leans over the windowsill, one curved forefinger at her plump
lips. She looks at Ruth as a dog will look at a turtle—closely, without sympathy. "Are you a lost one?"
she asks Ruth, and then says to Margarethe,

"Is she a changeling? Let her go if she is; let her go, and let's see what she'll do! Will she fly like a crow?"

"What kind of town is this, that the young address their elders with such nonsense?" cries Margarethe in
competent Dutch, and the girl rears back for a moment, but the look of scrutiny doesn't vanish. Curiosity
is too great.

Suddenly Ruth reaches up through the open window and takes hold of the girl's plaything—a small
wooden windmill, with arms that pivot on a nail. Ruth puts the peg end of it in her mouth, by habit. She
sucks as a new calf works at a teat. A dirty chuckle ripples through the crowd. But Ruth is calmed by the
distraction, and Margarethe grips Ruth about

the waist.