"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - The St Germain Chronicles" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

tell me and I will come to you.
You must not lose your courage. Love that can embrace our secret and
our nature is rare, but it illuminates all of life. For it is life, Madelaine, in
spite of our deaths. Believe this, for I assure you, I promise you, it is true, as
it is true that I love you, will always love you.


Saint-Germain
his seal, the eclipse




THE SPIDER GLASS
An Edwardian Story


^»

“T HERE is a curious tale behind this mirror, actually. I’m pleased you noticed it,”
their host said to the select and exclusively masculine company that had gathered in
the Oak Parlor at Briarcopse after dinner. He reached for the port to refill his glass
and rather grandly offer it around. “Surely you’ll have some. It was laid down the
year I was born—splendid stuff. My father was quite the expert in these matters, I
assure you.”
Five of his guests accepted with alacrity; the sixth declined with a polite,
Continental bow, and the Earl put the decanter back on the silver tray set out on the
gleaming mahogany table. “Don’t stand on ceremony, any of you,” he said with a
negligent wave of his long, thin hand. He then settled back in his chair, a
high-backed, scallop-topped relic of the reign of Queen Anne and propped his heels
on the heavy Tudor settle before the fire. Slowly he lit his cigar, savoring its aroma
as well as the anticipation of his guests.
“For the lord Harry, Whittenfield…” the rotund gentleman with the brindled
mutton-chop whiskers protested, though his indignation was marred by an
indulgent smirk.
Their host, Charles Whittenfield, ninth Earl of Copsehowe, blew out a cloud of
fragrant, rum-soaked tobacco smoke, and stared at the small dull mirror in its
frame of tooled Baroque silver. “It is a curious tale,” he said again, as much to
himself as any of the company. Then recalling his guests, he directed his gaze at his
wiry, middle-aged cousin who was in the act of warming his brandy over one of the
candles. “Dominick, you remember my mother’s aunt Serena, don’t you?”
“I remember all the women on that side of the family,” Dominick said promptly.
“The most amazing passel of females. My mother refuses to mention half of
them—she feels they aren’t respectable. Well, of course they’re not. Respectable
women are boring.”
“Yes, I’m always amazed by them. And why they all chose to marry such
sticks-in-the-mud as they did, I will never understand. Still, they make the family
lively, which is more than I can say for the males. Not a privateer or adventurer
among them. Nothing but solid, land-loving, rich, placid countrymen, with a yen
for wild girls.” He sighed. “Anyway, Dominick, great-aunt Serena…”