susan kay 电子版里面弄错的那部分

The outer shell of the Mazenderan palace was nearing completion, sufficient of the building now standing -erected by the hands of more than a hundred laborers - to create a glorious illusion of the past. The columnar structure, with its double porticoes on three sides, and its soaring, elegantly fluted shafts, echoed back to the glories of the Persian Empire under Darius and Xerxes. But the outer facade was a cunning illusion designed to deceive the mental defenses of an unwary courtier. Within, using the versatility of our high-quality baked bricks and his own unique technical ingenuity, I knew that Erik intended to create an interior belonging entirely to the future. He had guarded his secrets jealously until now, revealing to the laborers only as much as they needed to know at each stage of construction. But rather than take those secrets to his grave, he entrusted me, at the outset of our mission, with documents that would ensure the structure's completion in the event of his death. I did not dare to look at them, and, as I watched his protracted suffering on that never-ending journey, I fully expected to be required to hand them on to the master mason in charge. When we reached the palace, Erik was carried into the echoing edifice on a litter and there, pulling himself up on one elbow, he looked around incredulously. “Give me those papers!” he said in a voice that was suddenly thunderous with rage. “And fetch the master mason here to me now!” He was on his feet when the trembling man came to kneel before him. “You have not followed my instructions ... why?” “Forgive me, master,” the man stammered. “I did my best ... but the specifications were so ... so complex ... I did not understand them.” Erik snatched the riding whip from my hand and brought it down across the man’s shoulder with a violence that made the fellow stumble backwards. “Next time you don’t understand something,” he said awfully, “ask, damn you! Ask!” “You weren't here, master,” sobbed the man in terror. “You weren't here to ask ... it has been more than three weeks since you came to us.” Erik let the whip fall to the ground. “Yes,” he said faintly. “You are right ... this is a damnable way to build. Get up now ... are you hurt?” “No, master,” said the mason, wonderingly. “You are very fortunate,” said Erik with a sigh, “that I lacked the strength to break your neck. Come to my tent now and I will go through the plans with you ... give you my last instructions. You will listen very carefully ... and you will not be afraid to tell me if you do not understand. I swear to you now that as long as you show me honesty, I will show you no more anger.” I was present throughout that interview, but the technicalities of pivots and trapdoors and echo acoustics were well beyond me. For three hours Erik leant on the little makeshift table, explaining and re-explaining with extraordinary patience, occasionally sketching an extra diagram to illustrate a particular point more clearly. The hands of my watch stood at midnight before the master mason said that he understood everything. “Are you sure?” Erik persisted. “Absolutely sure this time?” “Yes, master.” Erik sighed. I turned from the flap of the tent in time to see him fall. By dawn he was delirious, wandering in dark nightmares of the past. “It was an accident,” he whispered, “it was an accident... I didn't mean to make her fall... I didn't want you to see ...Oh, Father ... why did you make me do it... why!” As I bent over to place a water bottle to his lips, he clutched at my arm in terrible panic. “Give me back the mask!” he sobbed. “Give me back the mask and let me go home ... I hate it here ... I hate this cage ... this filthy cage!” He fought with me like a madman for several minutes and when he fell back on the pallet exhausted I was able to see tears glistening on the mask. “Where's Sacha?” he suddenly demanded with quiet fear. “Where is she!” “She's here,” I said with hesitance, “she's here, Erik, she's ... she's quite safe.” He closed his eyes. “Don't let her out tonight,” he begged, twisting his fingers in my sleeve. “Promise me you won't let her out ... promise me!” I promised; it seemed to calm him. When he slipped from delirium into a coma, I had him carried the half-mile to my house at Ashraf. There was nothing more I could do for him now except permit him to die in some semblance of comfort, in a place where he had once shared a child's laughter. My orders were strict on our arrival: Reza was not to be told of Erik's presence. But before the end 

of the day someone had betrayed me and I found I had no option but to wheel the child into that deathly silent room. “Why did they poison him?” Reza's speech was slurred now and increasingly difficult to follow. I bent down and placed one hand on the child's emaciated shoulder. “You must understand that he has many enemies, Reza. He has become too powerful ... there are many people who hate him and wish for his death.” “If I speak to him, will he hear me?” “I don't think so, Reza ... I don't think he can hear anything now.” “But he might,” persisted the child, “he might. Father, may I stay here with you for a while?” I had no heart to refuse. I wheeled the chair beside the bed and when the child's fingers groped blindly across the coverlet I leant over and guided his hand to Erik's thin wrist. “I want you to wake up, Erik,” said Reza simply, “my music man is broken and no one else knows how to mend it.” There was no response from the skeletal figure in the bed. Over and over Reza repeated his request with ever shriller intensity, until I knew I could not permit this terrible travesty to continue any longer. Then, as I moved towards the chair with quiet determination, I saw Erik's fingers stir briefly on the coverlet. The child saw nothing of course and I wheeled him from the room without speaking of it, not wishing to raise false hope. And indeed it was not until the following night that Erik opened his eyes and looked up at me with quiet lucidity. “You should have told me it was broken,” he said.

awesome!