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’
I
expect
you
’
ve
got
to
go
off
to
work
now
.
’
’
More
or
less
.
’
Mort
hesitated
,
aware
that
in
some
indefinable
way
the
conversation
had
drifted
out
of
the
shallows
and
was
now
floating
over
some
deep
bits
he
didn
’
t
quite
understand
.
There
was
a
noise
like
—
It
made
Mort
recall
the
old
yard
at
home
,
with
a
pang
of
homesickness
.
During
the
harsh
Ramtop
winters
the
family
kept
hardy
mountain
tharga
beasts
in
the
yard
,
chucking
in
straw
as
necessary
.
After
the
spring
thaw
the
yard
was
several
feet
deep
and
had
quite
a
solid
crust
on
it
.
You
could
walk
across
it
if
you
were
careful
.
If
you
weren
’
t
,
and
sank
knee
deep
in
the
concentrated
gyppo
,
then
the
sound
your
boot
made
as
it
came
out
,
green
and
steaming
,
was
as
much
the
sound
of
the
turning
year
as
birdsong
and
beebuzz
.
It
was
that
noise
.
Mort
instinctively
examined
his
shoes
.
Ysabell
was
crying
,
not
in
little
ladylike
sobs
,
but
in
great
yawning
gulps
,
like
bubbles
from
an
underwater
volcano
,
fighting
one
another
to
be
the
first
to
the
surface
.
They
were
sobs
escaping
under
pressure
,
matured
in
humdrum
misery
.
Mort
said
,
’
Er
?
’
Her
body
was
shaking
like
a
waterbed
in
an
earthquake
zone
.
She
fumbled
urgently
in
her
sleeves
for
the
handkerchief
,
but
it
was
no
more
use
in
the
circumstances
than
a
paper
hat
in
a
thunderstorm
.
She
tried
to
say
something
,
which
became
a
stream
of
consonants
punctuated
by
sobs
.
Mort
said
,
’
Um
?
’
