Мор - ученик смерти
’Isthereawizardinthecity?’shesaid.’Lookatme,atme.There’sawizard,isn’tthere?Yougirlsarealwaysskulkingofftotalktowizards!Wheredoeshelive?’
Thewomanturnedatear-stainedfacetowardsher,fightingagainsteveryinstinctthattoldhertheprincessdidn’texist.
’Uh...wizard,yes...Cutwell,inWallStreet.
Keli’slipscompressedintoathinsmile.Shewonderedwherehercloakswerekept,butcoldreasontoldheritwasgoingtobeadamnsighteasiertofindthemherselfthantrytomakeherpresencefelttothemaid.Shewaited,watchingclosely,asthewomanstoppedsobbing,lookedaroundherinvaguebewilderment,andhurriedoutoftheroom.
She’sforgottenmealready,shethought.Shelookedatherhands.Sheseemedsolidenough.
Ithadtobemagic.
Shewanderedintoherrobingroomandexperimentallyopenedafewcupboardsuntilshefoundablackcloakandhood.Sheslippedthemonanddartedoutintothecorridoranddowntheservants’stairs.
Shehadn’tbeenthiswaysinceshewaslittle.Thiswastheworldoflinencupboards,barefloorsanddumb-waiters.Itsmelledofslightlystalecrusts.
Kelimovedthroughitlikeanearthboundspook.Shewasawareoftheservants’quarters,ofcourse,inthesamewaythatpeopleareawareatsomelevelintheirmindsofthedrainsortheguttering,andshewouldbequitepreparedtoconcedethatalthoughservantsalllookedprettymuchaliketheymusthavesomedistinguishingfeaturesbywhichtheirnearestanddearestcould,presumably,identifythem.
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