"Freda Warrington - A Taste of Blood Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Warrington Freda)

A Taste


would be a delight. And then there's the most important
qualification of all."
"Which is what?"
"The ability to make a good cup of tea. There's a teapot around here
somewhere. We often brew up down here; saves bothering the
maid, y'see, especially since Sally sprained her ankle coming down
the stairs once. Adds a nice schoolboyish touch, I think. Henry, sort
the tea out, will you? What are you staring at?"
Then Dr Neville stopped, opened and closed his mouth like a fish. It
was only then that Karl realised why they were staring. He had
picked up the beaker of boiling water in his bare hand and was still
holding it. He felt the heat but disregarded it, knowing it could not
harm him and forgetting how extraordinary it must look.
"Your hand!" Neville exclaimed.
Karl set the vessel down. They both hurried over to him, flustered.
"My God, I forgot to tell you to pick it up with tongs! Have you
burned yourself?"
Karl turned his hand over and gave it a perfunctory inspection,
moving away from them as he did so. "No, it is all right. I didn't
even notice."
Dr Neville touched the edge of the beaker and snatched his hand
away. "Ouch! It must have scalded you. I'm most dreadfully sorry.
This is your fault, Henry: if you'd been paying attention—! Better
run it under the cold tap to make sure."
Karl went to the sink and did as he asked, only to avoid an
argument. This was the danger, that some small sign would give

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A Taste


him away. His immunity to things that would harm humans he took
so much for granted that it was too easy to forget. Yet it was no
danger, really. Men were always swift to seize on a rational
explanation where the irrational was too outlandish to be considered.
"Are you all right?" George Neville said weakly.
"Perfectly."
"I don't see—"
"I have tough skin," said Karl, "from playing the cello."

***
Charlotte was running away.
Influenza had laid her low for two weeks. Normally she would have
soldiered through it, but this time she gave herself into the kingdom
of fever and dark dreams as if into the arms of a lover. Illness
became a veil to hide her from the world.
But now she was nearly better. Her father had sent her to Parkland