Мор - ученик смерти

           Ithadascytheinit.

           Mortlookedaroundatthedoors.Theylookedimportant.Theirarcheswerecarvedinthenow-familiarbonesmotif.Hewenttotrythenearestone,andavoicebehindhimsaid:

           ’Youmustn’tgointhere,boy.’

           Ittookhimamomenttorealisethatthiswasn’tavoiceinhishead,butrealhumanwordsthathadbeenformedbyamouthandtransferredtohisearsbyaconvenientsystemofaircompression,asnatureintended.Naturehadgonetoalotoftroubleforsixwordswithaslightlypetulanttonetothem.

           Heturnedaround.Therewasagirlthere,abouthisownheightandperhapsafewyearsolderthanhim.Shehadsilverhair,andeyeswithapearlysheentothem,andthekindofinterestingbutimpracticallongdressthattendstobewornbytragicheroineswhoclaspsinglerosestotheirbosomwhilegazingsoulfullyatthemoon.Morthadneverheardthephrase’Pre-Raphaelite’,whichwasapitybecauseitwouldhavebeenalmosttherightdescription.However,suchgirlstendtobeonthetranslucent,consumptiveside,whereasthisonehadaslightsuggestionoftoomanychocolates.

           Shestaredathimwithherheadononeside,andonefoottappingirritablyonthefloor.Thenshereachedoutquicklyandpinchedhimsharplyonthearm.

           ’Ow!’

           ’Hmm.Soyou’rereallyreal,’shesaid.’What’syourname,boy?’