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Days
passed
,
although
Mort
wasn
’
t
certain
how
many
.
The
gloomy
sun
of
Death
’
s
world
rolled
regularly
across
the
sky
,
but
the
visits
to
mortal
space
seemed
to
adhere
to
no
particular
system
.
Nor
did
Death
visit
only
kings
and
important
battles
;
most
of
the
personal
visits
were
to
quite
ordinary
people
.
Meals
were
served
up
by
Albert
,
who
smiled
to
himself
a
lot
and
didn
’
t
say
anything
much
.
Ysabell
kept
to
her
room
most
of
the
time
,
or
rode
her
own
pony
on
the
black
moors
above
the
cottage
.
The
sight
of
her
with
her
hair
streaming
in
the
wind
would
have
been
more
impressive
if
she
was
a
better
horse
-
woman
,
or
if
the
pony
had
been
rather
larger
,
or
if
her
hair
was
the
sort
that
streams
naturally
.
Some
hair
has
got
it
,
and
some
hasn
’
t
.
Hers
hadn
’
t
.
When
he
wasn
’
t
out
on
what
Death
referred
to
as
THE
DUTY
Mort
assisted
Albert
,
or
found
jobs
in
the
garden
or
stable
,
or
browsed
through
Death
’
s
extensive
library
,
reading
with
the
speed
and
omnivorousness
common
to
those
who
discover
the
magic
of
the
written
word
for
the
first
time
.
Most
of
the
books
in
the
library
were
biographies
,
of
course
.
They
were
unusual
in
one
respect
.
They
were
writing
themselves
.
People
who
had
already
died
,
obviously
,
filled
their
books
from
cover
to
cover
,
and
those
who
hadn
’
t
been
born
yet
had
to
put
up
with
blank
pages
.
Those
in
between
.
.
.
Mort
took
note
,
marking
the
place
and
counting
the
extra
lines
,
and
estimated
that
some
books
were
adding
paragraphs
at
the
rate
of
four
or
five
every
day
.
He
didn
’
t
recognise
the
handwriting
.
And
finally
he
plucked
up
his
courage
.
A
WHAT
?
said
Death
in
astonishment
,
sitting
behind
his
ornate
desk
and
turning
his
scythe
-
shaped
paperknife
over
and
over
in
his
hands
.
’
An
afternoon
off
,
’
repeated
Mort
.
The
room
suddenly
seemed
to
be
oppressively
big
,
with
himself
very
exposed
in
the
middle
of
a
carpet
about
the
size
of
a
field
.
BUT
WHY
?
said
Death
.
IT
CANT
BE
TO
ATTEND
YOUR
GRANDMOTHER
’
S
FUNERAL
,
he
added
.
I
WOULD
KNOW
.
