Сумерки

           Edwardpulledmetowardthefarleftside,standingmeinfrontofasmallsquareoilpaintinginaplainwoodenframe.Thisonedidnotstandoutamongthebiggerandbrighterpieces;paintedinvaryingtonesofsepia,itdepictedaminiaturecityfullofsteeplyslantedroofs,withthinspiresatopafewscatteredtowers.Awideriverfilledtheforeground,crossedbyabridgecoveredwithstructuresthatlookedliketinycathedrals.

           "Londoninthesixteen-fifties,"Edwardsaid.

           "TheLondonofmyyouth,"Carlisleadded,fromafewfeetbehindus.Iflinched;Ihadn’theardhimapproach.Edwardsqueezedmyhand.

           "Willyoutellthestory?"Edwardasked.ItwistedalittletoseeCarlisle’sreaction.

           Hemetmyglanceandsmiled."Iwould,"hereplied."ButI’mactuallyrunningabitlate.Thehospitalcalledthismorning-Dr.Snowistakingasickday.Besides,youknowthestoriesaswellasIdo,"headded,grinningatEdwardnow.

           Itwasastrangecombinationtoabsorb-theeverydayconcernsofthetowndoctorstuckinthemiddleofadiscussionofhisearlydaysinseventeenth-centuryLondon.

           Itwasalsounsettlingtoknowthathespokealoudonlyformybenefit.

           Afteranotherwarmsmileforme,Carlislelefttheroom.

           IstaredatthelittlepictureofCarlisle’shometownforalongmoment.

           "Whathappenedthen?"Ifinallyasked,staringupatEdward,whowaswatchingme."Whenherealizedwhathadhappenedtohim?"

           Heglancedbacktothepaintings,andIlookedtoseewhichimagecaughthisinterestnow.