"Andre Norton - The Opal-Eyed Fan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

She came into the full light of an open window carrying a carved box which she opened to take out a fan,
spreading its sticks to their fullest extent in the sunlight.
Persis had seen the brise fans of intricately carved ivory which the China merchants sometimes offered for
sale. And those made in the same fashion of pierced sandal wood, to be used in summer—the perfume of the wood
was supposed to be restorative on a very warm day. But this was like and yet unlike either. It was made of carved
sticks strung together with ribbon, yes. But the wood of the sticks was dead black. And the heavier end pieces each
bore the head of a cat in high relief, the eyes of which were fashioned of shimmering dark blue stones. While the inner
carving was again that of cats stalking among grasses, sleeping, sitting.
"Those are what they call black opals," Lydia indi-cated the eye stones. "There was a jeweler in Key West
who told Crewe that. And he thinks this may be near two or three hundred years old—but he was not sure whether it
was made in China or Italy. But it's magic—the Lost Lady is supposed to have used it to kill Satin-shirt Jack, and then
fanned herself out of existence afterward." Lydia laughed. "Go ahead, take it; these cats neither scratch nor bite—at
least they never have me!"
Persis put out her hand with some reluctance. The fan was strange, even though it was beautiful. But it gave
her an uncanny feeling—even though she did not believe in its supposed ill luck. She held it close to study the cats.
They had—she searched for the right term—a rather unnatural look. In fact, as she held the fan open she had an odd
fancy that they were all star-ing at her measuringly. Quickly she closed the fan and handed it back to Lydia.
 "It is indeed unusual," she commented and knew that Lydia was watching her closely as if expecting some
reaction to mark Persis as superstitious as the islanders.
"Yes," Lydia dropped it back in its box and, return-ing that to the chest, made no move to pick up the
gar-ments she had spilled out during her search. "Oddly enough, even though this is always here, when she
walks the ghost holds it in her hand. I find the idea of a ghost fan amusing. Now, I must find Mrs. Pryor. If
I don't coax her a bit, she won't bring out the best wine — Come along if you like."
Persis shook her head. "I must see about my uncle. Thank you."
When she tapped on the door of that chamber Shu-bal opened it instantly, as if he had been
anxiously awaiting her.
"Miss Persis—please—the master is awake. And he's asking for you."
She should have been here earlier. Why had she let Lydia interfere with her sense of duty? Persis
hurried to the side of the bed. It was strange to be looking down instead of up into those wide eyes. For
even in his old age, Uncle Augustin was a tall man who, until his illness, had held himself confidently
straight.
"I am here, sir. I am sorry I was not earlier—"
He raised a hand as if by great effort. "No matter—" His voice, though hoarse, still had its remote,
courte-ous tone.
"There is something I must explain to you, Persis." He stopped between words to draw puffing
breaths she felt uneasy hearing. "We are always vain of our strength, unconsidering of our weakness.
I—perhaps I have made a mistake in undertaking this, even a griev-ous error. Yet looking back I cannot
see how I might have chosen differently.
"You know that the failure of Rooke and Company seriously compromised those funds which are
our sup-port. I might have been able to redeem those losses had not time been my enemy. I am too old,
which is a hard thing to admit."
His straight gaze dared her to make any comment of sympathy.
"Three months ago—" he paused and coughed. Shu-bal nearly elbowed Persis aside, then that hand
raised again to wave the servant away with such vigor that he drew back. "I received a communication of
some import. We have, as do all families, our secrets. Doubt-less you have never heard of Amos Rooke."
He did not wait for any answer from her.
"During the days of our Revolution, my father had a younger brother, Amos. He sought out strange
com-pany, mingling with the young British officers who were on duty in occupied New York. In other
words, he declared himself a 'loyalist.' When the British army at last evacuated the city, he gathered
together quite a sum in funds, some of it stolen from his own country-men. With this he sailed to the West