Зима тревоги нашей
Chapter 5
IfIthinkaboutitwhileItieabow,thetiehasarotatingtendency,butifIletmyfingerstaketheirownway,theydoitperfectly.IcommissionedmyfingersandthoughtabouttheatticoftheoldHawleyhouse,myhouse,myattic.Itisnotadarkandspideryprisonforthebrokenandtheabandoned.Ithaswindowswithsmallpanessooldthatthelightcomesthroughlavenderandtheoutsideiswavery—likeaworldseenthroughwater.ThebooksstoredtherearenotwaitingtobethrownoutorgiventotheSeamen’sInstitute.Theysitcomfortablyontheirshelveswaitingtoberediscovered.Andthechairs,someunfashionableforatime,somerump-sprung,arelargeandsoft.Itisnotadustyplaceeither.Housecleaningisattic-cleaningalso,andsinceitismostlyclosedaway,dustdoesnotenter.Irememberasachildscramblingamongthebrilliantsofbooksor,batteredwithagonies,orinthespectralhalf-lifethatrequiresloneliness,retiringtotheattic,toliecurledinagreatbody-moldedchairintheviolet-lavenderlightfromthewindow.ThereIcouldstudythebigadze-squaredbeamsthatsupporttheroof—seehowtheyaremortisedoneintoanotherandpinnedinplacewithoakendowels.Whenitrainsfromrustlingdriptoroarontheroof,itisafinesecureplace.
