Мор - ученик смерти

           whyhaveyougotyoureyesshut?’

           ’Mort,pleaseputsomeclotheson,’saidYsabellinatightlittlevoice.

           Mortlookeddown.

           ’Sorry,’hesaidmeekly,’Ididn’trealise...Whoputmetobed?’

           ’Idid,’shesaid.’ButIlookedtheotherway.’

           Mortdraggedonhisbreeches,shruggedintohisshirtandhurriedouttowardsDeath’sstudywithYsabellonhisheels.Albertwasinthere,jumpingfromfoottofootlikeaduckonagriddle.WhenMortcameinthelookontheoldman’sfacecouldalmosthavebeengratitude.

           Mortsawwithamazementthatthereweretearsinhiseyes.

           ’Hischairhasn’tbeensatin,’Albertwhined.

           ’Sorry,butisthatimportant?’saidMort.’Mygrandaddidn’tusedtocomehomefordaysifhe’dhadagoodsaleatthemarket.’

           ’Buthe’salwayshere,’saidAlbert.’Everymorning,aslongasI’veknownhim,sittinghereathisdeska-workingonthenodes.It’shisjob.Hewouldn’tmissit.’

           ’Iexpectthenodescanlookafterthemselvesforadayortwo,’saidMort.

           Thedropintemperaturetoldhimhewaswrong.Helookedattheirfaces.

           Theycan’t?’hesaid.

           Bothheadsshook.

           ’Ifthenodesaren’tworkedoutproperlyalltheBalanceisdestroyed,’saidYsabell.’Anythingcouldhappen.’

           ’Didn’theexplain?’saidAlbert.

           ’Notreally.I’vereallyonlydonethepracticalside.Hesaidhe’dtellmeaboutthetheoreticalstufflater,’saidMort.Ysabellburstintotears.