She was so distraught she didn't even notice that the knocker winked at her.
She tried again, and thought she heard a distant crash. After some time the door opened a few inches and she caught a glimpse of a round flustered face topped with curly hair. Her right foot surprised her by intelligently inserting itself in the crack.
aid he hadn't had an evening off in a thousand years,' said Albert. 'He was humming. I don't like it. I've never seen him like this.'
'Oh.' Mort took the plunge. 'Albert, have you been here long?'
Albert looked at him over the top of his spectacles.
'Maybe,' he said. 'It's hard to keep track of outside time, boy. I bin here since just after the old king died.'
'Which king, Albert?'
'Artorollo, I think he was called. Little fat man. Squeaky voice. I only saw him the once, though.'
'Where was this?'
'In Ankh, of course.'
'What?' said Mort. They don't have kings in Ankh-Morpork, everyone knows that!'
'This was back a bit, I said,' said Albert. He poured himself a cup of tea from Death's personal teapot and sat down, a dreamy look in his crusted eyes. Mort waited expectantly.
'And they was kings in those days, real kings, not like the sort you get now. They was monarchs,' continued Albert, carefully pouring some tea into his saucer and fanning it primly with the end of his muffler. 'I mean, they was wise and fair, well, fairly wise. And they wouldn't think twice about cutting your head off soon as look at you,' he added approvingly. 'And all the queens were tall and pale and wore them balaclava helmet things —'
'Wimples?' said Mort.
'Yeah, them, and the princesses were beautiful as the day is long and so noble they, they could pee through a dozen mattresses —'
'What?'
Albert hesitated. 'Something like that, anyway,' he conceded. 'And there was balls and tournaments and executions. Great days.' He smiled dreamily at his memories.
'Not like the sort of days you get now,' he said, emerging from his reverie with bad grace.
'Have you got any other names, Albert?' said Mort. But the brief spell had been broken and the old man wasn't going to be drawn.
'Oh, I know,' he snapped, 'get Albert's name and you'll go and look him up in the library, won't you? Prying and poking. I know you, skulking in there at all hours reading the lives of young wimmen —'
The heralds of guilt must have flourished their tarnished trumpets in the depths of Mort's eyes, because Albert cackled and prodded him with a bony finger.
'You might at least put them back where you find 'em,' he said, 'not leave piles of 'em around for old Albert to put back. Anyway, it's not right, ogling the poor dead things. It probably turns you blind.'
'But I only —' Mort began, and remembered the damp lace handkerchief in his pocket, and shut up.
He left Albert grumbling to himself and doing the washing up, and slipped into the library. Pale sunlight lanced down from the high windows, gently fading the covers on the patient, ancient volumes. Occasionally a speck of dust would catch the light as it floated through the golden shafts, and flare like a miniature supernova.
Mort knew that if he listened hard enough he could hear the insect-like scritching of the books as they wrote themselves.
Once upon a time Mort would have found it eerie. Now it was – reassuring. It demonstrated that the universe was running smoothly. His conscience, which had been looking for the opening, gleefully reminded him that, all right, it might be running smoothly but it certainly wasn't heading in the right direction.
He made his way through the maze of shelves to the mysterious pile of books, and found it was gone. Albert had been in the kitchen, and Mort had never seen Death himself enter the library. What was Ysabell looking for, then?
He glanced up at the cliff of shelves above him, and his stomach went cold when he thought of what was starting to happen. . . .
There was nothing for it. He'd have to tell someone.
Keli, meanwhile, was also finding life difficult.