Bill Door felt the tiny flicker of hope.
I COULD SHOW YOU—
The end of the scythe handle caught him under the chin and knocked him against the wall, where he slid to the ground.
We detect a trick. We do not listen. The reaper does not listen to the harvest.
Bill Door tried to get up.
The scythe handle struck him again.
We will not make the same mistakes.
Bill Door looked up. The new Death was holding the golden timer; the top bulb was empty. Around both of them the landscape shifted, reddened, began to take on the unreal appearance of reality seen from the other side…
You’re out of Time, Mr. Bill Door.
The new Death raised his cowl.
There was no face there. There was not even a skull. Smoke curled formlessly between the robe and a golden crown.
Bill Door raised himself on his elbows.
A CROWN? His voice shook with rage. I NEVER WORE A CROWN!
You never wanted to rule.
The Death swung the scythe back.
And then it dawned on the old Death and the new Death that the hissing of passing time had not, in fact, stopped.
The new Death hesitated, and took out the golden glass.
It shook it.
Bill Door looked into the empty face under the crown. There was an expression of puzzlement there, even with no features actually to wear it; the expression hung in the air all by itself.
He saw the crown turn.
Miss Flitworth stood with her hands held a foot apart and her eyes closed. Between her hands, in the air in front of her hovered the faint outline of a lifetimer, its sand pouring away in a torrent.
The Deaths could just make out, on the glass, the spidery name: Renata Flitworth.
The new Death’s featureless expression became one of terminal puzzlement. It turned to Bill Door.
For YOU?
But Bill Door was already rising and unfolding like the wrath of kings. He reached behind him, growling, living on loaned time, and his hands closed around the harvest scythe.
The crowned Death saw it coming and raised its own weapon but there was very possibly nothing in the world that would stop the worn blade as it snarled through the air, rage and vengeance giving it an edge beyond any definition of sharpness. It passed through the metal without slowing.
No CROWN, said Bill Door, looking directly into the smoke. No CROWN. ONLY THE HARVEST.
The robe folded up around his blade. There was a thin wail, rising beyond the peak of hearing. A black column, like the negative of lightning, flashed up from the ground and disappeared into the clouds.
Death waited for a moment, and then gingerly gave the robe a prod with his foot. The crown, bent slightly out of shape, rolled out of it a little way before evaporating.
OH, he said, dismissively. DRAMA.