Both ran headlong into Bocharnaya Street. After running for some time in a dense crowd, they finally stopped, breathing heavily. En stared and even stamped her foot:
- What are you?
Amelie chewed her cheek, trying to hide her awkwardness.
- Nothing. I didn't like him. Did you see how you looked? Is it okay to look at girls like that?
En chuckled.
“I didn’t seem to be looking. I almost threw myself on his neck!
- Stop doing that! You are all lying!
Amelie pretended to turn around and go, she was about to leave, but immediately returned and pulled En by the sleeve:
- Look look!
An ugly hunchback swayed in the crowd. Bent, long-nosed, with sparse reddish hair pulled back into a thin braid. Where he stepped, an empty space immediately formed - people shunned - and a hump covered with brown cloth loomed into the light, like the earthen top of a hillock. Some women even turned away and overshadowed themselves with the sign of salvation.
Amelie nodded at the hunchback.
- He…
En shrugged.
"Maybe he isn't?" It's like there's only one hunchback in the city. You don't know for sure.
- I know. I've already seen him once on the Bridge of Beauties. I don't confuse this nose with anything. Here is a monster...
En moved further away from the wall:
- Well, let him go where he went. As long as it doesn't touch us. Fuck him!
Amelie leaned close to her friend's ear.
“They say he is a sorcerer. And not a servant at all.
En laughed and shook her head.
- Nonsense. Grandma Belta says no.
Amelie waved her hand and walked towards the Bread Market:
- Your grandmother has long lost her mind, so she composes God knows what. Listen to her - so there is a full castle of demons and other evil spirits. What if there is nothing?
En rolled her eyes.
“Her son, by the way, brings him clay from Red Lake every month. Eight barrels. And drove through the gate. And, probably, what he saw, he told. I don't know about demons. I only know that this vile hunchback is in service. He accepts these damned barrels.
Amelie shrugged.
Why does he need so much clay? Does he make pots?
- Who knows? Maybe sculpt.
Both suddenly burst out laughing, imagining a sorcerer, whom no one had ever seen, doing such a strange thing. He certainly appeared old and ugly, with terrible crooked hands.
Amelie waved it off.
- Well, him! I have more serious worries. In the morning I filled the account book with ink - I knocked over the device on the table. I wanted to see how much money my father gave me this month. Less and less every month, like I don't need it at all.
En frowned.
- Why?
“Martha the barmaid brought nutmeg from Gabard and vanilla from the Vaar Islands. I wanted to ask you to postpone for me. You yourself understand...
The only thing that could really captivate Amelie was the dough. She could die for hours from stuffiness in the hot kitchen near the oven for a ruddy pie or pot-bellied choux pastries. Every now and then, move the shutter a little and watch through the lush gap how the dough rises and blushes in the red reflections of smoldering coals. Pechevo did not "survive" until the evening - rarely succeeded: only the father was dissatisfied - it was too expensive. Ate and scolded. He said that he would not give another lure for pampering. Although it turned out better than many. And my mother admitted. Amelie even asked her father to try the stove for sale, but he resolutely forbade it: it was not for the nobles to engage in trade, no matter how hard it was. Moreover, to perform the work of servants. Cookies! Well, well ... the nobility is only on paper, but the conventions are in all their glory. Well, okay ... Amelie always liked to think that she is not a commoner, while En is only the daughter of a haberdasher. Pleasant, but useless superiority. Now neither Vaar vanilla nor Gabard nutmeg shone. Monthly contentment also did not shine.
- What is the next? Ann fiddled with her fingers nervously. - Whip out?
Amelie pursed her lips in concentration.
- Let him try. I’m already a girl of marriageable age - it’s not appropriate to flog. Father Olaf says so. Is that locked in a closet. Now let the sisters be afraid of rods.
"And you don't feel sorry for them?"
It's a pity, it's not a pity ... En was never beaten - there's simply no reason for her. Obedient silent quiet. And if something happened, it was Amelie's fault. She was flogged for two. The father lamented that nothing would come of his daughter, and the mother completely fell into despair, claiming that the obstinate daughter was retribution for sins.
Amelie shrugged.
- The father considers that this is a necessary educational measure. Do you know what he once said?
- What?
- That when I have a husband, he will also have the right to beat me if I have done something wrong. Everything points to my character. Calls it insufferable. Allegedly, this is beneficial and pleasing to God. And father Olaf, you know, agrees! Well, well ... Once, in my childhood, I spied how my mother hit my father in the kitchen with a copper ladle exactly on the head. Then they were arguing about something. Apparently, it was also very useful.
En shook her head gravely.
- Can not be so. You have no respect at all. He is your father. He's a man. Benefactor. There is only blame and patience.
- To blame - I will confess, if there is anything for it. But to endure ... I generally don’t understand everything: why did they suddenly decide that fathers and husbands are always in charge of us?
En shrugged.
— It just so happened. They are smarter. They are stronger. They have every right.
The latter, alas, is true - nothing can be done. Both the Clave and the churchmen are all on their side.
When we slowly reached Khlebnaya Square, the clock on the watchman's tower struck five. En said goodbye and hurried home to the wedding chores. Amelie walked the streets for a long time, pretending to be in a hurry somewhere, because the girl did not stop loitering alone doing nothing. Wandered, looked around. All the time it seemed that blue eyes were about to appear in the crowd. Oh, and the eyes - everything turned upside down inside. Even with just one thought, the blood dispersed, and the body was filled with some kind of pleasant ache. That would be such a husband - you can suffocate with happiness. Here, with just one look, you will fall in love so much that your heart will stop. After all, you can dream? Find out who it is, where it's staying. Even just a name. He must have a beautiful sonorous name that rolls on the tongue like a lollipop. And keep it like a child's secret. As a girl, Amelie often made secrets. She picked up all sorts of nonsense, covered it with broken glass and sprinkled it with earth. All that remained was to wipe the round window with your finger and look in.
What if he is married? From this thought, all rainbow dreams faded - it is a sin to dream of a married man. But how can one not dream of such a thing? Never, never has this happened. En fell in love almost every day, as soon as she saw a pretty face. Every day new love and new dreams. Amelie just laughed. And now she didn't recognize herself, for the first time in her life. I wanted to jump, laugh, spin, but at the same time roar. And he didn't even say a word. And, for sure, he doesn’t even remember her.
Foolish thoughts replaced even the fear of his father. On the flooded page were all the calculations for the last month. Every time my father scrupulously calculated something so that the family would have the most necessary, he collected according to krin, according to small copper lur. He adjusted it so that he would allocate to his wife and daughters, albeit a small, but his own amount. If he lashes out - rightly so. Where you deserve it, you deserve it.
When the warm blue twilight began to cover the city, it was simply not safe to stay on the street. Respectable townspeople hurried to go home and close the shutters, leaving Chalons to the vagrants from the Merry Quarter. The shadows lengthened and blackened so quickly that when Amelie reached the Seventh Square, a star-studded blue canopy of night stretched overhead. She hesitated at the door, as long as it wasn't locked. Then, perhaps, it will be possible to slip into the room unnoticed and lie that she returned much earlier.
Amelie pushed the heavy ironed door, which silently yielded on well-greased hinges, and slipped into the hallway. A dim, burning lantern hung on a hook - alas, they were waiting for her. But the hope of slipping unnoticed still remained. Amelie peered into the corridor leading to the kitchen—it was dark, even the cook was not scratching with her cauldrons. She picked up her cloth skirt as she stepped carefully up the treacherous wooden stairs, which creaked at the slightest touch. She went up to the second floor and froze - candles burned brightly in the living room. Father never allows candles to be burned so extravagantly. Well... you can't get through here. He will get for everything: for the account book, and for the late return, and for some other incidental sins.
Amelie sighed, gathering her courage: you have to answer for your actions. She stepped into the living room and bowed her head guiltily. Mother and father sat side by side on a couch upholstered in worn tapestry. Straight, with pale, long faces. All this was not normal - they always defiantly sat in different corners: the mother invariably believed that her father did not appreciate her, and the father regularly repeated that his mother was harassing him. Ideal family relationship. Now they seem to have ceased to be themselves. Maybe someone died? Do not bring the Creator...
Amelie lowered her head, not daring to speak first, looked into the corner by the fireplace. She looked away and immediately raised her head again: in an armchair, under the portrait of Grandfather Gaspard in a heavy gilded frame, sat the same ugly hunchback. The flame of the candles danced with glare on his long, weighty nose, like that of a heron. Amelie backed away, but pulled herself together: both father and mother are here - there will be no harm.
The hunchback looked at her with obvious pleasure. He leaned forward, smiled, which made his face contort into an ugly mask, as if streaked with black ink:
And here is our girl.