Сумерки

           Wewalkedupthemassivestaircase,myhandtrailingalongthesatin-smoothrail.Thelonghallatthetopofthestairswaspaneledwithahoney-coloredwood,thesameasthefloorboards.

           "RosalieandEmmett’sroom...Carlisle’soffice...Alice’sroom..."Hegesturedasheledmepastthedoors.

           Hewouldhavecontinued,butIstoppeddeadattheendofthehall,staringincredulouslyattheornamenthangingonthewallabovemyhead.Edwardchuckledatmybewilderedexpression.

           "Youcanlaugh,"hesaid."Itissortofironic."

           Ididn’tlaugh.Myhandraisedautomatically,onefingerextendedasiftotouchthelargewoodencross,itsdarkpatinacontrastingwiththelightertoneofthewall.Ididn’ttouchit,thoughIwascuriousiftheagedwoodwouldfeelassilkyasitlooked.

           "Itmustbeveryold,"Iguessed.

           Heshrugged."Earlysixteen-thirties,moreorless."

           Ilookedawayfromthecrosstostareathim.

           "Whydoyoukeepthishere?"Iwondered.

           "Nostalgia.ItbelongedtoCarlisle’sfather."

           "Hecollectedantiques?"Isuggesteddoubtfully.

           "No.Hecarvedthishimself.Ithungonthewallabovethepulpitinthevicaragewherehepreached."

           Iwasn’tsureifmyfacebetrayedmyshock,butIreturnedtogazingatthesimple,ancientcross,justincase.Iquicklydidthementalmath;thecrosswasoverthreehundredandseventyyearsold.ThesilencestretchedonasIstruggledtowrapmymindaroundtheconceptofsomanyyears.

           "Areyouallright?"Hesoundedworried.

           "HowoldisCarlisle?"Iaskedquietly,ignoringhisquestion,stillstaringup.