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The
horse
watched
him
from
its
stall
,
occasionally
trying
to
eat
his
hair
in
a
friendly
sort
of
way
.
After
a
while
he
became
aware
that
someone
else
was
watching
him
.
The
girl
Ysabell
was
lean
-
big
on
the
half
-
door
,
her
chin
in
her
hands
.
’
Are
you
a
servant
?
’
she
said
.
Mort
straightened
up
.
’
No
,
’
he
said
,
’
I
’
m
an
apprentice
.
’
That
’
s
silly
.
Albert
said
you
can
’
t
be
an
apprentice
.
’
Mort
concentrated
on
hefting
a
shovelful
into
the
wheelbarrow
.
Two
more
shovelfuls
,
call
it
three
if
it
’
s
well
pressed
down
,
and
that
means
four
more
barrows
,
all
right
,
call
it
five
,
before
I
’
ve
done
halfway
to
the
.
.
.
’
He
says
,
’
said
Ysabell
in
a
louder
voice
,
’
that
apprentices
become
masters
,
and
you
can
’
t
have
more
than
one
Death
.
So
you
’
re
just
a
servant
and
you
have
to
do
what
I
say
.
’
.
.
.
and
then
eight
more
barrows
means
it
’
s
all
done
all
the
way
to
the
door
,
which
is
nearly
two
-
thirds
of
the
whole
thing
,
which
means
.
.
.
.
’
Did
you
hear
what
I
said
,
boy
?
’
