Книга только для ознакомления
. The man had al-
ready passed out and was beyond noticing.
Pinching the edges of the wound together, Phineas be-
gan at the back, using his most decorative cross-stitch
pattern to draw the raw skin together. He concentrated
on his neatness, because if he thought about what he was
doing, he was certain he would feel the twine pulling
through his own flesh. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he
worked.
Denzil stirred and moaned beneath the needle.
Phineas hastily finished up the last two stitches as his pa-
tient's eyes flew open. Tying a quick overhand knot in
the end of the twine, Phineas stepped back anxiously and
waited for the man's bellows of pain.
Understanding returned quickly to Denzil's eyes.
Within moments even his color had turned better. Winc-
ing only slightly, he looked under his arm at the hemp-
colored twine in his side. "You do pretty fair work for a
quack. Nice, thick stitches." His expression became soft
and peaceful as he said, " 'Where we grow and decay no
longer, our trees ever green.' Quivalen Sath, The Bird
Song of Wayreth Forest."
Either the man was delirious, or astonishingly, he was
in very little pain. His voice was steady, and so were his
hands.
"You're familiar with his work, of course," the man in
the chair said. "Greatest poet that ever lived."
"Of course," Phineas agreed vacantly. This man was
strange and creepy and Phineas wanted him out of his
shop as quickly as possible. "I'm sure you'll be just fine
now. I'm just on my way out of town, so if you don't
mind --"
"I think I'll just rest here for a few more minutes," the
man said
|
