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’
Well
,
if
you
’
re
sure
.
.
.
the
Stack
,
I
suppose
.
That
’
s
where
father
puts
all
the
biographies
that
are
more
than
five
hundred
years
old
.
It
’
s
this
way
.
’
She
led
the
way
past
the
whispering
shelves
to
a
door
set
in
a
cul
-
de
-
sac
.
It
opened
with
some
effort
and
the
groan
of
the
hinges
reverberated
around
the
library
;
Mort
fancied
for
a
moment
that
all
the
books
paused
momentarily
in
their
work
just
to
listen
.
Steps
led
down
into
the
velvet
gloom
.
There
were
cobwebs
and
dust
,
and
air
that
smelled
as
though
it
had
been
locked
in
a
pyramid
for
a
thousand
years
.
’
People
don
’
t
come
down
here
very
often
,
’
said
Ysabell
.
’
I
’
ll
lead
the
way
.
’
Mort
felt
something
was
owed
.
’
I
must
say
,
’
he
said
,
’
you
’
re
a
real
brick
.
’
’
You
mean
pink
,
square
and
dumpy
?
You
really
know
how
to
talk
to
a
girl
,
my
boy
.
’
’
Mort
,
’
said
Mort
automatically
.
The
Stack
was
as
dark
and
silent
as
a
cave
deep
underground
.
The
shelves
were
barely
far
enough
apart
for
one
person
to
walk
between
them
,
and
towered
up
well
beyond
the
dome
of
candlelight
.
They
were
particularly
eerie
because
they
were
silent
.
There
were
no
more
lives
to
write
;
the
books
slept
.
But
Mort
felt
that
they
slept
like
cats
,
with
one
eye
open
.
They
were
aware
.
