Читать книгу The Gargoyle at the Gates - Philippa Dowding - Страница 9

Park Serenade

That night after dinner (which was always very noisy and interesting at the Canning house), Christopher was sitting in his bedroom at the top of the house.

Bedrooms were important for Christopher. As the youngest of a large family that moved all the time, he never knew what his next bedroom would be like.

Whenever they moved into a new house, bedrooms were chosen by names drawn from a hat. Christopher had never won the best bedroom in his whole life …

… except this time! Christopher had the best room he’d ever seen. It was an octagon, an eight-sided turret at the top of the house, and it had an enormous bay window that faced the little park next door. Everyone had wanted the turret bedroom at the top of the house, but HE was the one whose name was picked. HE won it, it was HIS!

The best part of all was that it was quiet. His many-assorted-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister all had bedrooms on the floors below.

He jumped on his bed and stuck his elbows on the windowsill. He pushed the old windows open as wide as he could. The rain had stopped, and the air was sharp and clean. It was a beautiful autumn evening. He looked down into the park, listening to the water bubbling in the seahorse fountain. From the window he could see the entire park surrounded by the fence, with the bushes, apple tree, and benches in the middle. It wasn’t a very big park at all.

He picked up his guitar. He was actually getting pretty good.

He played a song called “Piece Ensemble.” It had a nice melody, but it was a bit sad-sounding. When he finished, he laid his guitar against his knee, and looked down into the park.

It was empty.

Then why did he hear someone down there clapping?