Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Butwe’reallreal!Atleast,youare,andIsupposeIam.’

           ’Buthe’sbecomingmorereal.Extremelyreal.NearlyasrealasDeath,andyoudon’tgetmuchrealler.Notmuchrealleratall.’

           ’Areyousure?’saidAlbert,suspiciously.

           ’Ofcourse,’saidYsabell.’Workitoutyourselfifyoulike.’

           Albertlookedbackatthebigbook,hisfaceaportraitofuncertainty.

           ’Well,theycouldbeaboutright,’heconcededwithbadgrace,andcopiedoutthetwonamesonascrapofpaper.There’sonewaytofindout,anyway.’

           HepulledopenthetopdrawerofDeath’sdeskandextractedabigironkeyring.Therewasonlyonekeyonit.

           WHATHAPPENSNOW?saidMort.

           ’We’vegottofetchthelifetimers,’saidAlbert.’Youhavetocomewithme.’

           ’Mort!’hissedYsabell.

           ’What?’

           ’Whatyoujustsaid—’Shelapsedintosilence,andthenadded,’Oh,nothing.Itjustsounded...odd.’

           ’Ionlyaskedwhathappensnow,’saidMort.

           ’Yes,but–oh,nevermind:’

           Albertbrushedpastthemandsidledoutintothehallwaylikeatwo-leggedspideruntilhereachedthedoorthatwasalwayskeptlocked.Thekeyfittedperfectly.Thedoorswungopen.Therewasn’tsomuchasasqueakfromitshinges,justaswishofdeepersilence.

           Andtheroarofsand.

           MortandYsabellstoodinthedoorway,transfixed,asAlbertstampedoffbetweentheaislesofglass.