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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