Inkheart (52 page)

He sat there in his worst enemy's kitchen for quite a long time, watching the fairy flying around the room investigating everything, for fairies are naturally inquisitive, and this one was obviously no exception. Every now and then she stopped to sip her milk, and he filled the dish a second time. Once or twice, footsteps approached, but each time they passed by the house. What
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a good thing Basta had no friends. The air that came in through the window was sultry; it made Dustfinger drowsy. The narrow strip of sky showing above the houses would stay light for many hours yet — long enough for him to make up his mind whether or not to go to Capricorn's festivities.

Why should he go? He could get hold of the book later, some time when all the excitement in the village had died down and everything was back to normal. And what about Resa? What was going to happen to her? The Shadow would come for her. There was nothing to be done about that, not by anyone, not even Silvertongue if he was really so crazy as to try. But Silvertongue didn't know about her, or about his daughter; at least there was no need to worry about Meggie

— not now that she was Capricorn's favorite toy. Capricorn wouldn't let the Shadow hurt
her.

No, I won't go, thought Dustfinger, I'll hide here for a while. Tomorrow, there'll be no more Basta, that's one good thing. And perhaps I will go away from here, go away forever. . . . No. He knew he wouldn't do that. Not while the book was here.

The fairy had flown over to the window and was peering curiously out at the alley.

"Forget it. Stay here," said Dustfinger. "Please. Believe me, it's no place for you out there."

She looked at him quizzically, then folded her wings and knelt on the windowsill. And there she stayed, as if she couldn't decide between the hot room and the strange freedom to be found outside.

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Chapter 53 – The Right Words

This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that
the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape,
should usurp the offices of life.

–
Robert Louis Stevenson,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Fenoglio wrote and wrote, but the number of pages he had hidden under the mattress was no greater. He kept taking them out, fiddling with them, tearing up one, and adding another. "No, no, no!" Meggie heard him muttering crossly to himself. "No, that's not it yet."

"It will be dark in a few hours," she said at last, anxiously. "Suppose you don't finish it in time?"

"I have finished!" he snapped, irritated. "I've finished a dozen times already, but I'm not happy with it." He lowered his voice to a whisper before he went on. "There are so many questions.

Suppose the Shadow turns on you or me or the prisoners once he's killed Capricorn? And is killing Capricorn really the only solution? What's going to happen to his men afterward? What do I do with them?"

"What do you think? The Shadow must kill them all!" Meggie whispered back. "How else are we ever going to get home or rescue my mother?"

Fenoglio did not like this reply. "Good heavens, what a heartless creature you are!" he whispered. "Kill them all! Haven't you seen how young some of them are?" He shook his head.

"No! I'm not a mass murderer, I'm a writer! I'm sure I can think of some less bloodthirsty ending." And he began writing again . . . and crossing out words . . . and writing more, while outside the sun sank lower and lower until its rays were gilding the hilltops.

Every time steps came along the corridor Fenoglio hid what he had been writing under his mattress, but no one came in to see what the old man kept scribbling on his blank sheets of paper. For Basta was down in the crypt.

The bored guards on duty outside their door had several visitors that afternoon. Men had obviously come into the village from Capricorn's outposts to watch the execution. Putting her ear to the door, Meggie eavesdropped on their conversations. They laughed
a.
lot, and their voices sounded excited. They were all looking forward to the night's spectacle. Not one of them seemed to feel sorry for Basta. Far from it. Knowing Capricorn's former favorite was to die that night just seemed to add to their fun. Of course they discussed Meggie, too. That little witch, they called her, that little madam the enchantress, and not all of them seemed to be convinced of her powers.

As for Basta's executioner, Meggie learned no more than what Fenoglio had already told her and what she remembered of the passage the Magpie had made her read. It wasn't much, but she heard the fear in those voices outside the door and the horrified awe that overcame them all at the mention of his name, which was not a real name at all. Only those who, like Capricorn himself, had come out of Fenoglio's book had ever seen the Shadow — but they had all obviously heard about him — and they painted pictures in the darkest tones of how he would deal with the prisoners. There were evidently several opinions about how he actually killed his victims, but the suggestions Meggie overheard grew more and more horrible the closer evening came, until she could bear it no longer. She went to sit by the window with her hands over her ears.

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It was six o'clock — the church clock was just beginning to strike — when Fenoglio suddenly put down his pen and looked over what he had written with a satisfied expression. "Got it!" he whispered. "Yes, that's it. That's how it will be. It will turn out splendidly." Impatiently, he beckoned Meggie over and gave her the paper.

"Read it!" he whispered, glancing nervously at the door. Out in the corridor, Flatnose was just boasting of the way he had poisoned a farmer's stocks of olive oil.

"Is that all?" Meggie looked incredulously at the single sheet of paper.

"Yes, that's all. No more is needed. As you'll see. The words just have to be the right ones. Go on, read it!"

Meggie did as he said.

The men outside were laughing, and she found it difficult to concentrate on Fenoglio's words.

Finally, she did it. But she'd no sooner finished the first sentence when the men outside fell utterly silent. The Magpie's voice echoed down the corridor. "What's all this? A coffee break?"

Fenoglio hastily took the precious paper and put it under his mattress. He was just readjusting the bedspread when the Magpie opened the door.

"Your supper," she told Meggie, putting a steaming plate down on the table.

"What about me?" inquired Fenoglio in a deliberately cheerful voice. The mattress had slipped slightly when he hid the paper under it, and he had to lean against his bed to hide it from Mortola, but luckily she had no eyes for him. Meggie felt sure she thought he was merely a liar, and very likely it annoyed her that Capricorn did not agree with her.

"Eat it all up!" she ordered Meggie. "And then get changed. Your clothes look dreadful and stiff with dirt, too." She signaled to the maid who had come with her, a young girl at most only four or five years older than Meggie herself. The rumors of Meggie's supposed powers of witchcraft had obviously reached this girl's ears, too. A snow-white dress was draped over her arm, and she avoided looking at Meggie as she made her way past her to hang it in the closet.

"I don't want that dress!" Meggie spat at the Magpie. "I want to wear this." She took Mo's sweater off her bed, but Mortola snatched it from her hands.

"Nonsense. Do you want Capricorn to think we've been keeping you in a sack? You'll wear that dress. Either you put it on yourself or we'll put it on you. I will come for you as soon as darkness falls. Wash your face and comb your hair. You look like a stray cat."

The maid scurried past Meggie again, looking frightened as if any contact might burn her. The Magpie impatiently pushed the girl out into the corridor. "Lock the door," she told Flatnose.

"And send your friends away. You're supposed to be on guard."

Flatnose strolled casually toward the door. Meggie saw him make a face at the Magpie behind her back before he closed it.

She went over to the dress and touched the white material. "White!" she murmured. "I don't like white things. Death has white hounds. Mo once told me a story about them."

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"Ah yes, the white, red-eyed hounds of Death." Fenoglio came over to her. "Ghosts are white, too, and the thirst of the ancient gods for blood was quenched only by white sacrificial animals, as if the gods like the taste of innocence best. Oh no, no!" he added quickly, seeing Meggie's terrified eyes. "No, believe me, Capricorn certainly wasn't thinking of any such thing when he sent you that dress. How would he know such stories? White is the color of the beginning, too, and of the end. And both of us," he added, lowering his voice, "remember, you and I, Meggie, are going to make sure it is Capricorn's end and not ours." Gently, he led Meggie to the table and made her sit down. The smell of roast meat rose to her nostrils.

"What do you think it is?" she asked.

"Looks like veal. Why?"

Meggie pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry," she murmured.

Fenoglio looked at her with great sympathy. "You know, Meggie," he said, "I think I should write a story about you next, you and how you save us all with your voice. It would be a very exciting story."

"But would it have a happy ending?" Meggie looked out of the window. Only another hour, two at the most, and it would be dark. Suppose Mo came then? Suppose he made another attempt to free her? He didn't know what she and Fenoglio were planning. Suppose they shot at him again?

Suppose they really did hit him last time? Meggie put her arms on the table and buried her face in them.

She felt Fenoglio stroking her hair. "It will be all right, Meggie!" he whispered. "Believe me, my stories always have happy endings. If I want them to."

"That dress has very tight sleeves!" she whispered. "How will I hide the paper in my sleeve without the Magpie noticing?"

"I'll distract her attention. Don't worry."

"But later? They'll all see me take the paper out."

"Nonsense, you'll manage." Fenoglio put a hand under her chin. "It will be all right, Meggie!" he said again, wiping a tear off her cheek with his forefinger. "You're not alone, even if you may feel so tonight. I'm here, and Dustfinger is somewhere out there. I know him as well as I know myself, and I can assure you he'll come, if only to see the book and perhaps get it back — and then there's your father, and that boy who was looking at you in such a lovesick way back in the square in front of the memorial when I first saw Dustfinger."

"Oh, stop it!" Meggie dug her elbow into his stomach, but she had to laugh, even though her tears were still blurring everything, the table, her hands, Fenoglio's wrinkled face. She felt as if she had used up enough tears for a whole lifetime in these last few weeks.

"Why? He's a good-looking lad. I'd put in a good word for him with your father like a shot."

"I said stop it!"

"Only if you'll eat something." Fenoglio pushed the plate back toward her. "And that lady, your friend, what was her name?"

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"Elinor." Meggie put an olive in her mouth and chewed it until she could feel the stone between her teeth.

"Exactly. Perhaps she's out there, too, with your father. Good Lord, when I come to think of it we're almost in the majority."

Meggie almost choked on the olive stone. Fenoglio smiled, pleased with himself. Mo always raised his eyebrows when he had managed to make her laugh, looking both surprised and serious as if he had no idea what she was laughing at. Meggie could see his face before her so clearly that she might almost have reached out to touch it.

"You'll soon see your father again!" whispered Fenoglio. "And then you can tell him that you found your mother along the way and rescued her from Capricorn. That's quite something, don't you think?"

Meggie just nodded.

The dress felt scratchy on her throat and arms. It was more like a dress for a grown-up than a child, and it was somewhat too big for Meggie. When she took a few steps in it she trod on the hem. The sleeves fitted tightly, but she had no difficulty in pushing the sheet of paper up inside one of them; it was as thin as a dragonfly's leg. She practiced a couple of times — pushing it in, pulling it out. Finally, she left it up her sleeve. It crackled slightly when she moved her hands or raised that arm.

The moon hung pale in the sky above the church tower, and the night wore a veil of moonlight when the Magpie came back to fetch Meggie.

"You haven't combed your hair!" she said crossly. This time she had another maid with her, a stocky woman with a red face and red hands who was obviously not afraid of Meggie's powers of witchcraft. She pulled the comb so brutally through Meggie's hair that she almost cried out.

"Shoes!" said the Magpie, seeing Meggie's bare toes peep out from under the hem of the dress.

"Didn't anyone think of shoes?"

"She could put those on." The maid pointed to Meggie's worn-out sneakers. "The dress is long enough, no one will see them. Anyway, don't witches always go barefoot?"

The Magpie gave her such a look that her voice died on her lips.

"Exactly!" cried Fenoglio, who had been watching the two women get Meggie ready with an ironic expression on his face. "That's what they do, they always go barefoot. Do I have to change for this festive occasion, too? What does one wear to attend an execution? I imagine I will be sitting beside Capricorn?"

The Magpie stuck out her chin. It was a small, soft chin and looked as if it came from another, gentler face.

"You can stay as you are," she said, putting a comb with pearls in Meggie's hair. "Prisoners don't have to change." The mockery dripped from her voice like poison.

"What do you mean, prisoners?" Fenoglio pushed his chair back.

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"I mean
prisoners,
what else?" The Magpie stepped back and looked critically at Meggie. "That will have to do," she said. "It's odd, but with her hair back she reminds me of someone." Meggie quickly lowered her head, and before the Magpie could give this observation more thought Fenoglio diverted her attention.