Мор - ученик смерти
ThathadtomeaneitherAlbertorYsabell,becausethethoughtofexplainingeverythingtothosetinybluepinpointswasnotonehecaredtocontemplateafteralongnight.OntherareoccasionsYsabelldeignedtolookinhisdirectionshemadeitclearthattheonlydifferencebetweenMortandadeadtoadwasthecolour.AsforAlbert....
Allright,nottheperfectconfidant,butdefinitelythebestinafieldofone.
Mortsliddownthestepsandthreadedhiswaybackthroughthebookshelves.Afewhours’sleepwouldbeagoodidea,too.
Thenheheardagasp,thebriefpatterofrunningfeet,andtheslamofadoor.Whenhepeeredaroundthenearestbookcasetherewasnothingthereexceptastoolwithacoupleofbooksonit.Hepickedoneupandglancedatthename,thenreadafewpages.Therewasadamplacehandkerchieflyingnexttoit.
Mortroselate,andhurriedtowardsthekitchenexpectingatanymomentthedeeptonesofdisapproval.Nothinghappened.
Albertwasatthestonesink,gazingthoughtfullyathischippan,probablywonderingwhetheritwastimetochangethefatorletitbideforanotheryear.HeturnedasMortslidintoachair.
’Youhadabusytuneofit,then,’hesaid.’Gallivantingallovertheplaceuntilallhours,Iheard.Icoulddoyouanegg.Orthere’sporridge.’
’Egg,please,’saidMort.He’dneverpluckedupthecouragetotryAlbert’sporridge,whichledaprivatelifeofitsowninthedepthsofitssaucepanandatespoons.
’Themasterwantstoseeyouafter,’Albertadded,’buthesaidyouwasn’ttorush.’
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