Мор - ученик смерти

           Afterthespringthawtheyardwasseveralfeetdeepandhadquiteasolidcrustonit.Youcouldwalkacrossitifyouwerecareful.Ifyouweren’t,andsankkneedeepintheconcentratedgyppo,thenthesoundyourbootmadeasitcameout,greenandsteaming,wasasmuchthesoundoftheturningyearasbirdsongandbeebuzz.

           Itwasthatnoise.Mortinstinctivelyexaminedhisshoes.

           Ysabellwascrying,notinlittleladylikesobs,butingreatyawninggulps,likebubblesfromanunderwatervolcano,fightingoneanothertobethefirsttothesurface.Theyweresobsescapingunderpressure,maturedinhumdrummisery.

           Mortsaid,’Er?’

           Herbodywasshakinglikeawaterbedinanearthquakezone.Shefumbledurgentlyinhersleevesforthehandkerchief,butitwasnomoreuseinthecircumstancesthanapaperhatinathunderstorm.Shetriedtosaysomething,whichbecameastreamofconsonantspunctuatedbysobs.

           Mortsaid,’Um?’

           ’Isaid,howolddoyouthinkIam?’

           ’Fifteen?’hehazarded.

           ’I’msixteen,’shewailed.’AnddoyouknowhowlongI’vebeensixteenfor?’

           ’I’msorry,Idon’tunder—’

           ’No,youwouldn’t.No-onewould.’Sheblewhernoseagain,anddespitehershakinghandsneverthelesscarefullytuckedtheratherdamphankybackuphersleeve.

           ’You’reallowedout,’shesaid.’Youhaven’tbeenherelongenoughtonotice.Timestandsstillhere,haven’tyounoticed?Oh,somethingpasses,butit’snotrealtime.Hecan’tcreaterealtime.’

           ’Oh.