Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Youcomebackanytimeyoulike,y’hear?’

           YOU’DREALLYLIKETOSEEMEAGAIN?

           Thelandlordlookedbackatthesmallheapofcoinsonthebar.Thatwasworthalittleweirdness.Atleastthisonewasaquietone,andseemedtobeharmless.

           ’Oh,yes,’hesaid,propellingthestrangerintothestreetandretrievingthebottleinonesmoothmovement.’Dropinanytime.’

           THAT’STHENICEHESTTHING—

           Thedoorslammedontherestofthesentence.

           Ysabellsatupinbed.

           Theknockingcameagain,softandurgent.Shepulledthecoversuptoherchin.

           ’Whoisit?’shewhispered.

           ’It’sme,Mort,’camethehissunderthedoor.’Letmein,please!’

           ’Wait!’

           Ysabellscrambledfranticallyonthebedsidetableforthematches,knockingoverabottleoftoiletwateranddislodgingaboxofchocolatesthatwasnowmostlydiscardedwrappers.Onceshe’dgotthecandlealightsheadjusteditspositionformaximumeffect,tweakedthelineofhernightdressintosomethingmorerevealing,andsaid:’It’snotlocked.’

           Mortstaggeredintotheroom,smellingofhorsesandfrostandscumble.

           ’Ihope,’saidYsabellarchly,’thatyouhavenotforcedyourwayinhereinordertotakeadvantageofyourpositioninthishousehold.’

           Mortlookedaroundhim.Ysabellwasheavilyintofrills.Eventhedressingtableseemedtobewearingapetticoat.Thewholeroomwasn’tsomuchfurnishedaslingeried.

           ’Look,Ihaven’tgottimetomessaround,’hesaid.’Bringthatcandleintothelibrary.