Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Canyoureadit?’

           ’Sortof—’

           —"turneredhyshand,buttwassorelievexedthatallemenneatlastecommetonort,viz.Deathe,andvowedhymmetosekeImortalitieynhispride.’Thus,’hetoldetheyoungewizzerds,’wemaytakeuntoourselfesthemantelofGoddes.’Theenextday,ytbeingraining,Alberto"—

           ’It’swritteninOld,’hesaid.’Beforetheyinventedspelling.Let’shavealookatthelatestone.’

           ItwasAlbertallright.Mortcaughtseveralreferencestofriedbread.

           ’Let’shavealookatwhathe’sdoingnow,’saidYsabell.

           ’Doyouthinkweshould?It’sabitlikespying.’

           ’Sowhat?Scared?’

           ’Allright.’

           Heflickedthroughuntilhecametotheunfilledpages,andthenturnedbackuntilhefoundthestoryofAlbert’slife,crawlingacrossthepageatsurprisingspeedconsideringitwasthemiddleofthenight;mostbiographiesdidn’thavemuchtosayaboutsleep,unlessthedreamswereparticularlyvivid.

           ’Holdthecandleproperly,willyou?Idon’twanttogetgreaseonhislife.’

           ’Whynot?Helikesgrease.’

           ’Stopgiggling,you’llhaveusbothoff.Nowlookatthisbit....

           —’HecreptthroughthedustydarknessoftheStack—’Ysabellread–’hiseyesfixedonthetinyglowofcandlelighthighabove.Prying,hethought,pokingawayatthingsthatshouldn’tconcernthem,thelittledevils’—

           ’Mort!He’s—’

           ’Shutup!I’mreading!’

           —’soonputastoptothis.Albertcreptsilentlytothefootoftheladder,spatonhishands,andgotreadytopush.