Мор - ученик смерти

           Themaster’dneverknow;hewasactingstrangethesedaysanditwasallthatlad’sfault,and’—

           MortlookedupintoYsabell’shorrifiedeyes.

           ThenthegirltookthebookoutofMort’shand,helditatarm’slengthwhilehergazeremainedfixedwoodenlyonhis,andletitgo.

           Mortwatchedherlipsmoveandthenrealisedthathe,too,wascountingunderhisbreath.

           Three,four—

           Therewasadullthump,amuffledcry,andsilence.

           ’Doyouthinkyou’vekilledhim?’saidMort,afterawhile.

           ’What,here?Anyway,Ididn’tnoticeanybetterideascomingfromyou.’

           ’No,but–heisanoldman,afterall.’

           ’No,he’snot,’saidYsabellsharply,startingdowntheladder.

           ’Twothousandyears?’

           ’Notadayoversixty-seven.’

           ’Thebookssaid—’

           ’Itoldyou,timedoesn’tapplyhere.Notrealtime.Don’tyoulisten,boy?’

           ’Mort,’saidMort.

           ’Andstoptreadingonmyfingers,I’mgoingasfastasIcan.’

           ’Sorry.’

           ’Anddon’tactsowet.Haveyouanyideahowboringitislivinghere?’

           ’Probablynot,’saidMort,addingwithgenuinelonging,’I’veheardaboutboredombutI’veneverhadachancetotryit.’

           ’It’sdreadful.’

           ’Ifitcomestothat,excitementisn’tallit’scrackeduptobe.’

           ’Anything’sgottobebetterthanthis.’

           Therewasagroanfrombelow,andthenastreamofswearwords.

           Ysabellpeeredintothegloom.

           ’ObviouslyIdidn’tdamagehiscursingmuscles,’shesaid.’Idon’tthinkIoughttolistentowordslikethat.Itcouldbebadformymoralfibre.’