Then he slammed it down on the anvil.
AND I CAN’T SHARPEN IT ENOUGH!
“I think perhaps the heat has got to you,” she said, and reached out and took his arm.
“Besides, it looks sharp enough to—” she began, and paused. Her fingers moved on the bone of his arm. They pulled away for a moment, and then closed again.
Bill Door shivered.
Miss Flitworth didn’t hesitate for long. In seventy-five years she had dealt with wars, famine, innumerable sick animals, a couple of epidemics and thousands of tiny, everyday tragedies. A depressed skeleton wasn’t even in the top ten Worst Things she had seen.
“So it is you,” she said.
MISS FLITWORTH, I—
“I always knew you would come one day.”
I THINK PERHAPS THAT—
“You know, I spent most of my life waiting for a knight on a white charger.” Miss Flitworth grinned. “The joke’s on me, eh?”
Bill Door sat down on the anvil.
“The apothecary came,” she said. “He said he couldn’t do anything. He said she was fine. We just couldn’t wake her up. And, you know, it took us ages to get her hand open. She had it closed so tightly.”
I SAID NOTHING WAS TO BE TAKEN!
“It’s all right. It’s all right. We left her holding it.”
GOOD.
“What was it?”
MY TIME.
“Sorry?”
MY TIME. THE TIME OF MY LIFE.
“It looks like an eggtimer for very expensive eggs.”
Bill Door looked surprised. YES. IN A WAY. I HAVE GIVEN HER SOME OF MY TIME. “How come you need time?”
EVERY LIVING THING NEEDS TIME. AND WHEN IT RUNS OUT, THEY DIE. WHEN IT RUNS OUT, SHE WILL DIE. AND I WILL DIE, TOO. IN A FEW HOURS.
“But you can’t—”
I CAN. IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN.
“Move up.”
WHAT?
“I said move up. I want to sit down.”
Bill Door made space on the anvil. Miss Flitworth sat down.
“So you’re going to die,” she said.