Мор - ученик смерти

           ’You’dbetterpretendtobeimpreffed,’saidthedoorknockerconversationally,buthamperedsomewhatbythering.’Hedoesitwithpulleysandabitofftring.Nogoodatopening-fpells,fee?’

           Mortlookedatthegrinningmetalface.Iworkforaskeletonwhocanwalkthroughwalls,hetoldhimself.WhoamItobesurprisedatanything?

           ’Thankyou,’hesaid.

           ’You’rewelcome.Wipeyourfeetonthedoormat,it’sthebootfcraper’sdayoff.’

           Thebiglowroominsidewasdarkandshadowyandsmelledmainlyofincensebutslightlyofboiledcabbagearidelderlylaundryandthekindofpersonwhothrowsallhissocksatthewallandwearstheonesthatdon’tstick.Therewasalargecrystalballwithacrackinit,anastrolabewithseveralbitsmissing,aratherscuffedoctogramonthefloor,andastuffedalligatorhangingfromtheceiling.Astuffedalligatorisabsolutelystandardequipmentinanyproperly-runmagicalestablishment.Thisonelookedasthoughithadn’tenjoyeditmuch.

           Abeadcurtainonthefarwallwasflungasidewithadramaticgestureandahoodedfigurestoodrevealed.

           ’Beneficentconstellationsshineonthehourofourmeeting!’itboomed.

           ’Whichones?’saidMort.

           Therewasasuddenworriedsilence.

           ’Pardon?’