Mort

me,” he hinted.
    T HEY ALL HATE ME, YOU KNOW .
    “Yes, you said. But it’s a quarter to three.”
    The stranger turned unsteadily and looked around the silent room.
    T HERE’S NO ONE IN THE PLACE BUT YOU AND I, he said.
    The landlord lifted up the flap and came around the bar, helping the stranger down from his stool.
    I HAVEN’T GOT A SINGLE FRIEND . E VEN CATS FIND ME AMUSING .
    A hand shot out and grabbed a bottle of Amanita Liquor before the man managed to propel its owner to the door, wondering how someone so thin could be so heavy.
    I DON’T HAVE TO BE DRUNK , I SAID . W HY DO PEOPLE LIKE TO BE DRUNK ? I S IT FUN ?
    “Helps them forget about life, old chap. Now just you lean there while I get the door open—”
    F ORGET ABOUT LIFE . H A . H A .
    “You come back any time you like, y’hear?”
    Y OU’D REALLY LIKE TO SEE ME AGAIN ?
    The landlord looked back at the small heap of coins on the bar. That was worth a little weirdness. At least this one was a quiet one, and seemed to be harmless.
    “Oh, yes,” he said, propelling the stranger into the street and retrieving the bottle in one smooth movement. “Drop in anytime.”
    T HAT’S THE NICEHEST THING —
    The door slammed on the rest of the sentence.

Ysabell sat up in bed.
    The knocking came again, soft and urgent. She pulled the covers up to her chin.
    “Who is it?” she whispered.
    “It’s me, Mort,” came the hiss under the door. “Let me in, please!”
    “Wait!”
    Ysabell scrambled frantically on the bedside table for the matches, knocking over a bottle of toilet water and dislodging a box of chocolates that was now mostly discarded wrappers. Once she’d got the candle alight she adjusted its position for maximum effect, tweaked the line of her nightdress into something more revealing, and said: “It’s not locked.”
    Mort staggered into the room, smelling of horses and frost and scumble.
    “I hope,” said Ysabell archly, “that you have not forced your way in here in order to take advantage of your position in this household.”
    Mort looked around him. Ysabell was heavily into frills. Even the dressing table seemed to be wearing a petticoat. The whole room wasn’t so much furnished as lingeried.
    “Look, I haven’t got time to mess around,” he said. “Bring that candle into the library. And for heaven’s sake put on something sensible, you’re overflowing.”
    Ysabell looked down, and then her head snapped up.
    “Well!”
    Mort poked his head back round the door. “It’s a matter of life and death,” he added, and disappeared.
    Ysabell watched the door creak shut after him, revealing the blue dressing gown with the tassels that Death had thought up for her as a present last Hogswatch and which she hadn’t the heart to throw away, despite the fact that it was a size too small and had a rabbit on the pocket.
    Finally she swung her legs out of bed, slipped into the shameful dressing gown, and padded out into the corridor. Mort was waiting for her.
    “Won’t father hear us?” she said.
    “He’s not back. Come on.”
    “How can you tell?”
    “The place feels different when he’s here. It’s—it’s like the difference between a coat when it’s being worn and when it’s hanging on a hook. Haven’t you noticed?”
    “What are we doing that’s so important?”
    Mort pushed open the library door. A gust of warm, dry air drifted out, and the door hinges issued a protesting creak.
    “We’re going to save someone’s life,” he said. “A princess, actually.”
    Ysabell was instantly fascinated.
    “A real princess? I mean can she feel a pea through a dozen mattresses?”
    “Can she—?” Mort felt a minor worry disappear. “Oh. Yes. I thought Albert had got it wrong.”
    “Are you in love with her?”
    Mort came to a standstill between the shelves, aware of the busy little scritchings inside the book covers.
    “It’s hard to be sure,” he said. “Do I look it?”
    “You look a bit flustered. How does she feel about you?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Ah,” said Ysabell knowingly, in the tones of an expert. “Unrequited love is the worst kind. It’s probably not a good idea to go taking poison or killing yourself, though,” she added thoughtfully. “What are we doing here? Do you want to find her book to see if she marries you?”
    “I’ve read it, and she’s dead,” said Mort. “But only technically. I mean, not really dead.”
    “Good, otherwise that would be necromancy. What are we