Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Mortimer.TheycallmeMort,’hesaid,rubbinghiselbow.’Whatdidyoudothatfor?’

           ’IshallcallyouBoy,’shesaid.’AndIdon’treallyhavetoexplainmyself,youunderstand,butifyoumustknowIthoughtyouweredead.Youlookdead.’

           Mortsaidnothing.

           ’Lostyourtongue?’

           Mortwas,infact,countingtoten.

           ’I’mnotdead,’hesaideventually.’Atleast,Idon’tthinkso.It’salittlehardtotell.Whoareyou?’

           ’YoumaycallmeMissYsabell,’shesaidhaughtily.’Fathertoldmeyoumusthavesomethingtoeat.Followme.’

           Shesweptawaytowardsoneoftheotherdoors.Morttrailedbehindheratjusttherightdistancetohaveitswingbackandhithisotherelbow.

           Therewasakitchenontheothersideofthedoor–long,lowandwarm,withcopperpanshangingfromtheceilingandavastblackironstoveoccupyingthewholeofonelongwall.Anoldmanwasstandinginfrontofit,fryingeggsandbaconandwhistlingbetweenhisteeth.

           ThesmellattractedMort’stastebudsfromacrosstheroom,hintingthatiftheygottogethertheycouldreallyenjoythemselves.Hefoundhimselfmovingforwardwithoutevenconsultinghislegs.

           ’Albert,’snappedYsabell,’anotheroneforbreakfast.’