Mort - handmaiden

Ysabell clambered gamely after him, and peered over a canoe at a young girl sprawled across a pile of rugs. She was wearing gauze trousers, a waistcoat cut from not enough material, and enough bangles to moor a decent-sized ship. There was a green stain around her mouth.

“Does it hurt?” said Ysabell quietly.

No. THEY THINK IT TAKES THEM TO PARADISE.

“Does it”?

MAYBE. WHO KNOWS? Mort took the hourglass out of an inner pocket and inspected it by the gleam of the sword. He seemed to be counting to himself, and then with a sudden movement tossed the glass over his shoulder and brought the sword down with his other hand.

The girl’s shade sat up and stretched, with a clink of ghostly jewelry. She caught sight of Mort, and bowed her head.

“My lord!”

NO ONE’S LORD, said Mort. NOW RUN ALONG TO WHEREVER YOU BELIEVE YOU’RE GOING.

“I shall be a concubine at the heavenly court of King Zetesphut, who will dwell among the stars forever,” she said firmly.

“You don’t have to be,” said Ysabell sharply. The girl turned to her, wide-eyed.

“Oh, but I must. I’ve been training for it,” she said, as she faded from view. “I’ve only managed to be a handmaiden up till now.”

She vanished. Ysabell stared with dark disapproval at the space she had occupied.

***

Mort p175-176