Phoenix and Ashes полностью

"Or when they don't say anything at all," Reggie put in, with feeling. "And they expect you to somehow understand what's going on in their heads without any clue! And then when you blunder into some hideous mistake, they turn on you!"

"That's a fact," Joseph sighed. Albert nodded glumly.

"Dunno why they can't just say straight out what they want." A new country heard from: Michael Van, off in the corner with Mad Ross. "I mean! Tha's logical, ain't it? Do we go around sayin' one thing and meanin' the contrariwise?"

Reggie nodded along with the others, and signaled for another pint.

"You say to a girl," said young Albert, to no one in particular, "You say, 'a feller I know was wonderin' if you're seein' anyone in particaler,' an' she says, 'no, not in particaler,' and you get all set to—to see if she'd like to be seein' anyone in particaler, and then you turns around, and whup, there she is, at fair, with another feller, with all the parish t'see! So if she ain't with 'im, then why's she actin' like she's with 'im, is what I want to know!"

More shaking of heads. "Can't account for it," said Michael Van. "And you'd think, wouldn't you, if you'd offended some 'un, they'd tell you, wouldn't you?" He appealed to Ross. "If I said something that made you mad, you'd say!"

"I'd say," Mad Ross replied, with a glint in his eye. "Or I'd punch your nose. Either way, you'd know."

"So there's no call to be mad at a body if he's said summat you didn't like, and you didn't tell him, is there?" Michael continued, sounded aggrieved. "And 'specially if it was months and months ago, and you never said, till it's too late for him to remember what he did say, much less why you should be mad about it!"

"That's a fact," replied Albert.

"My round, I think," Reggie said.

Reggie would have liked to air his own grievance—but with his nerves rawly sensitive, he didn't want to put his standing in jeopardy with the other Broom regulars. He ran it over in his mind. No matter what I say, it's going to offend someone. If I tell them what I told her, surely they'll think I was being patronizing too. It's that lord of the manor business—and it wouldn't matter that not one of them has ever given thought to his daughter doing anything other than marrying another farmer or laborer—the moment I say anything about it, they're going to think the worse of me.

So instead, he just shook his head and murmured, "Women! There's no pleasing them."

The others nodded sagely.

The barmaid, Jessamine Heggins, glanced sideways at young Albert with compressed lips as she passed him, collecting glasses, delivering fresh pints. Reggie wondered if she was the one that Albert was referring to, and felt a distinct touch of annoyance at her. That was a cruel thing, stringing the poor fellow along!

"Well," he said looking into his glass, "Seems to me pretty unfair of them to expect us to know things without being told them. Seems to me it's pretty unfair to expect us to figure things out from a couple of hints not even King Solomon could guess at."

"Aye," Michael grumbled, tossing back his pint.

That was about as close as he dared come to his own grievance, and eventually someone ventured an oblique guess as to the likelihood of rabbitting come fall.

Now Reggie felt a bit more comfortable. "You know," he said, thoughtfully, and with an artfully casual manner, "My manager says that the rabbits are multiplying something awful this year. Three years now, no one's been thinning them out with shooting. I think a few snares wouldn't come amiss." He looked around the pub, as if he didn't know very well that every one of these men had been poaching "his" rabbits for generations. "Any of you fellows know someone that might be willing to put out some snares in the Longacre woods? Proper rabbit snares now, not something to catch a pheasant by accident."

Slight smiles. "Might," Ross offered.

After all, everyone poached. Especially now. But no one wanted to admit he knew how to.

"Now mind," Reggie went on, carefully not meeting anyone's eye, "He'd have to be careful of the season. We wouldn't want any orphaned bunnies. Not unless there were youngsters who knew how to catch them and raise them on goat's milk or something of the sort."

"Orphaned beasties is a sad thing," Michael Van agreed. "But the kiddies do like to make pets of 'em. Wouldn't hurt for 'em to go looking, now and again, just to make sure. No one'd set a snare this early, or at least, I misdoubt, but there's other things that make orphan bunnies. Dogs."

"Cats," put in Albert.