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.’