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’
He
hired
me
at
the
hiring
fair
,
’
said
Mort
.
’
All
the
boys
got
hired
.
And
me
.
’
’
And
you
wanted
to
be
hired
?
’
she
snapped
.
’
He
’
s
Death
,
you
know
.
The
Grim
Reaper
.
He
’
s
very
important
.
He
’
s
not
something
you
become
,
he
’
s
something
you
are
.
’
Mort
gestured
vaguely
at
the
wheelbarrow
.
’
I
expect
it
’
ll
turn
out
for
the
best
,
’
he
said
.
’
My
father
always
says
things
generally
do
.
’
He
picked
up
the
shovel
and
turned
away
,
and
grinned
at
the
horse
’
s
backside
as
he
heard
Ysabell
snort
and
walk
away
.
Mort
worked
steadily
through
the
sixteenths
,
eighths
,
quarters
and
thirds
,
wheeling
the
barrow
out
through
the
yard
to
the
heap
by
the
apple
tree
.
Death
’
s
garden
was
big
,
neat
and
well
-
tended
.
It
was
also
very
,
very
black
.
The
grass
was
black
.
The
flowers
were
black
.
Black
apples
gleamed
among
the
black
leaves
of
a
black
apple
tree
.
Even
the
air
looked
inky
.
Alter
a
while
Mort
thought
he
could
see
–
no
,
he
couldn
’
t
possibly
imagine
he
could
see
.
.
.
different
colours
of
black
.
That
’
s
to
say
,
not
simply
very
dark
tones
of
red
and
green
and
whatever
,
but
real
shades
of
black
.
A
whole
spectrum
of
colours
,
all
different
and
all
–
well
,
black
.
He
tipped
out
the
last
load
,
put
the
barrow
away
,
and
went
back
to
the
house
.
ENTER
.
