Мор - ученик смерти

           ’DidyougetpastUgandZog?’hehissed.There’salotofpeoplewouldbeveryinterestedtoknowwhat’sthere.’

           ’Igotfrightened.It’salongwayandIdidn’thaveenoughcandles.’

           ’Pity.’

           YsabellstoppedsosharplythatMortcannonedintothebackofher.

           Thiswouldbeabouttherightarea,’shesaid.’Whatnow?’

           Mortpeeredatthefadednamesonthespines.

           ’Theydon’tseemtobeinanyorder!’hemoaned.

           Theylookedup.Theywandereddownacoupleofsidealleys.Theypulledafewbooksoffthelowestshelvesatrandom,raisingpillowsofdust.

           ’Thisissilly,’saidMortatlast.There’smillionsofliveshere.Thechancesoffindinghisareworsethan—’

           Ysabelllaidherhandagainsthismouth.

           ’Listen!’

           Mortmumbledabitthroughherfingersandthengotthemessage.Hestrainedhisears,strivingtohearanythingabovetheheavyhissofabsolutesilence.

           Andthenhefoundit.Afaint,irritablescratching.High,highoverhead,somewhereintheimpenetrabledarknessonthecliffofshelves,alifewasstillbeingwritten.

           Theylookedateachother,theireyeswidening.ThenYsabellsaid,’Wepassedaladderbackthere.Onwheels.’

           ThelittlecastorsonthebottomsqueakedasMortrolleditback.Thetopendmovedtoo,asifitwasfixedtoanothersetofwheelssomewhereupinthedarkness.

           ’Right,’hesaid.’Givemethecandle,and—’

           ’Ifthecandle’sgoingup,thensoamI,’saidYsabellfirmly.’YoustopdownhereandmovetheladderwhenIsay.Anddon’targue.’