Мор - ученик смерти

           ItwouldhaveworriedMortifhe’dletit.Someonewasexpectinghim.He’dlearnedinrecentdays,though,thatratherthandrowninuncertaintyitwasbesttosurfrightoverthetopofit.Anyway,Binkywasn’tworriedbymoralscruplesandbitstraightin.

           Itdidleavetheproblemofwhethertoknock.Somehow,itdidn’tseemappropriate.Supposingno-oneanswered,ortoldhimtogoaway?

           Soheliftedthethumblatchandpushedatthedoor.Itswunginwardsquiteeasily,withoutacreak.

           Therewasalow-ceilingedkitchen,itsbeamsattrepanningheightforMort.Thelightfromthesolitarycandleglintedoffcrockeryonalongdresserandflagstonesthathadbeenscrubbedandpolishedintoiridescence.Thefireinthecave-likeinglenookdidn’taddmuchlight,becauseitwasnomorethanaheapofwhiteashundertheremainsofalog.Mortknew,withoutbeingtold,thatitwasthelastlog.

           Anelderlyladywassittingatthekitchentable,writingfuriouslywithherhookednoseonlyafewinchesfromthepaper.AgreycatcurledonthetablebesideherblinkedcalmlyatMort.

           Thescythebumpedoffabeam.Thewomanlookedup.

           ’Bewithyouinaminute,’shesaid.Shefrownedatthepaper.’Ihaven’tputinthebitaboutbeingofsoundmindandbodyyet,lotoffoolishnessanyway,no-onesoundinmindandbodywouldbedead.Wouldyoulikeadrink?’

           ’Pardon?’saidMort.Herecalledhimself,andrepeated’PARDON?’

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