Мор - ученик смерти

           Thesounddidn’tjustenterthebodyviatheears,itcameupthroughthelegsanddownthroughtheskullandfilledupthebrainuntilallthatitcouldthinkofwastherushing,hissinggreynoise,thesoundofmillionsoflivesbeinglived.Andrushingtowardstheirinevitabledestination.

           Theystaredupandoutattheendlessranksoflifetimers,everyonedifferent,everyonenamed.Thelightfromtorchesrangedalongthewallspickedhighlightsoffthem,sothatastargleamedoneveryglass.Thefarwallsoftheroomwerelostinthegalaxyoflight.

           MortfeltYsabell’sfingerstightenonhisarm.

           Whenshespoke,hervoicewasstrained.’Mort,someofthemaresosmall.’

           IKNOW.

           Hergriprelaxed,verygently,likesomeoneputtingthetopaceonahouseofcardsandtakingtheirhandawaygingerlysoasnottobringthewholeedificedown.

           ’Saythatagain?’shesaidquietly.

           ’IsaidIknow.There’snothingIcandoaboutit.Haven’tyoubeeninherebefore?’

           ’No.’Shehadwithdrawnslightly,andwasstaringathiseyes.

           ’It’snoworsethanthelibrary,’saidMort,andalmostbelievedit.Butinthelibraryyouonlyreadaboutit;inhereyoucouldseeithappening.

           ’Whyareyoulookingatmelikethat?’headded.

           ’Iwasjusttryingtorememberwhatcolouryoureyeswere,’shesaid,’because—’

           ’Ifyoutwohavequitehadenoughofeachother!’bellowedAlbertabovetheroarofthesand.’Thisway!’

           ’Brown,’saidMorttoYsabell.’They’rebrown.