Мор - ученик смерти

           That’satenthousandmileroundtriphoweveryoulookatit.Itcan’tbedone.’

           ’I’msureyou’llfindaway.AndI’llhelp.’

           Helookedatherforthefirsttimeandsawshewaswearingheroutdoorcoat,theunsuitableonewiththebigfurcollar.

           ’You?Whatcouldyoudo?’

           ’Binkycaneasilycarrytwo,’saidYsabellmeekly.Shewavedapaperpackagevaguely.’I’vepackedussomethingtoeat.Icould–holdopendoorsandthings.’

           Mortlaughedmirthlessly.THATWON’TBENECESSARY.

           ’Iwishyou’dstoptalkinglikethat.’

           ’Ican’ttakepassengers.You’llslowmedown.’

           Ysabellsighed.’Look,howaboutthis?Let’spretendwe’vehadtherowandI’vewon.See?Itsavesalotofeffort.IactuallythinkyoumightfindBinkyratherreluctanttogoifI’mnotthere.I’vefedhimanawfullotofsugarlumpsovertheyears.Now–arewegoing?’

           Albertsatonhisnarrowbed,gloweringatthewall.Heheardthesoundofhoofbeats,abruptlycutoffasBinkygotairborne,andmutteredunderhisbreath.

           Twentyminutespassed.Expressionsflittedacrosstheoldwizard’sfacelikecloudshadowsacrossahillside.Occasionallyhe’dwhispersomethingtohimself,like’Itold’em’or’Neverwouldofstoodforit’orThemasteroughttobetole’.

           Eventuallyheseemedtoreachanagreementwithhimself,kneltdowngingerlyandpulledabatteredtrunkfromunderhisbed.Heopeneditwithdifficultyandunfoldedadustygreyrobethatscatteredmothballsandtarnishedsequinsacrossthefloor.