Inkdeath (Inkworld 3)

Meggie had to laugh. What would she do if someday Mo wasn’t there anymore to make her laugh?

"I haven’t seen it all yet, Meggie," he said. "I still haven’t seen Balbulus’s books, and they matter the most. Handwritten books, Meggie, illuminated books, not stained by the dust of endless years, not yellowing and trimmed again and again . . . no, the paint has only just dried on their pages, the bindings are supple. Who knows, maybe Balbulus will even let me watch him at work for a while. Imagine it! I’ve so often wished that I could see one of those tiny faces being painted on the parchment, just once, and the tendrils beginning to twine around an initial, and . . .

Meggie couldn’t help it, she had to smile. "All right, all right," she said, and put her hand over his mouth, "All right," she repeated. "We’ll ride to see Balbulus, but together."

As we used to, she added in her thoughts. Just you and me. And when Mo was about to protest she closed his mouth again. "You said it yourself! Back in the disused mine." The mine where Dustfinger had died . . . Meggie repeated Mo’s words in a soft voice. She seemed to remember every word that had been spoken in those days, as if someone had written them on her heart. "Show me the fairies, Meggie. And the water-nymphs. And the book illuminator in Ombra Castle. Let’s find out how fine his brushes really are."

Mo straightened up and began sorting out the tools lying on the table, as he always used to in his workshop in Elinor’s garden.

"Yes. Yes, I expect those were my words," he said without looking at her. "But the Adderhead’s brother-in-law rules Ombra now. What do you think your mother would say if I put you in such danger?"

Her mother, Yes. . .

"Resa doesn’t have to know. Please, Mo! You must take me with you! Or . . . or I’ll tell Gecko to tell the Black Prince what you’re planning. Then you’ll never get to Ombra!"

He turned his face away, but Meggie heard him laughing softly. "That’s blackmail.

Did I teach you how to be a blackmailer?"

With a sigh, he turned back and looked at her for a long time. "Oh, very well," he said at last. "Let’s go to see the pens and brushes together. After all, we were together in the Adderhead’s Castle of Night. Ombra Castle can’t be so very dark by comparison, can it — although his brother-in-law rules it now?"

He stroked his black sleeve, "I’m glad bookbinders here don’t wear a costume as yellow as glue," he said as he put the book of Resa’s drawings into a saddlebag. "As for your mother — I’ll fetch her from Roxane’s after we’ve been to the castle, but don’t tell her anything about our expedition. I expect you’ve guessed why she feels sick in the mornings, haven’t you?"

Meggie looked at him blankly and then suddenly seemed to herself very, very stupid.

"A brother or a sister? Which would you rather have?" Mo looked so happy. "Poor Elinor. Did you know she’s been waiting for that news ever since we moved in with her? And now we’ve taken the baby away to another world with us."

A brother or a sister. For a while, when Meggie was little, she had pretended she had an invisible sister, She used to make her daisy tea and bake sand cakes.

"But.., how long have you two known?"

"The baby comes from the same story as you do, if that’s what You mean. From Elinor’s house, to be precise. A flesh-and-blood child, not made of words, not made of ink and paper. Although . . . who knows? Perhaps we’ve only slipped out of one story and into another, What do you think?"

Meggie looked around, saw the table, the tools, the feather — and Mo’s black clothes. Wasn’t all this made of words? Fenoglio’s words, The house, the farmyard, the sky above them, the trees, the rocks, the rain, the sun, and the moon. Yes, what about us? Meggie thought. What are we made of— Resa, me, Mo, and the baby on its way? She didn’t know the answer anymore. Had she ever known it?

It seemed as if the things around her were whispering of all that would be and all that had been, and when Meggie looked at her hands she felt as if she could read letters there, letters saying:

And then a new child was born.

CHAPTER 5

FENOGLIO FEELS SORRY FOR HIMSELF

Fenoglio was lying in bed, as he had so often in these last few weeks. Or was it months? It didn’t matter. Morosely, he looked up at the fairies’ nests above his head.

They had all been abandoned except one, which poured out a constant stream of chattering and giggling. It shimmered in iridescent colors like a patch of oil on water.

Orpheus’s doing! The fairies in this world Were blue, for heaven’s sake! It said so in black and white in his book. What did that idiot think he was doing, creating fairies in all the colors of the rainbow? And to make it even worse, the rainbow colored fairies drove away the blue ones wherever they Went. Rainbow-colored fairies, spotted brownies, and apparently there were some four-armed glass men around the place, too. Fenoglio’s head ached at the mere thought of it. And not an hour passed when he didn’t think of it, and wonder what Orpheus was writing now in his fine big house, where he held court as if he were the most important man in Ombra!

Fenoglio sent Rosenquartz to spy on the place almost every day, but it couldn’t be said that the glass man showed much talent for the job. Far from it. Fenoglio also suspected that Rosenquartz sometimes stole off to Seamstresses’ Alley to chase glass women instead of going to Orpheus’s house. Your fault, Fenoglio, he told himself grumpily, you should have written a little more sense of duty into their glass heads.

Which is not, I am afraid, the only thing you omitted to do. . .

He was reaching for the jug of red wine standing by his bed to comfort himself for this depressing fact when a small, rather breathless figure appeared at the skylight above. At last. Rosenquartz’s limbs, usually pale pink, had turned carmine. Glass men couldn’t sweat. They just changed color if they’d been making a strenuous effort, another rule that Fenoglio himself had made, although with the best will in the world he couldn’t now say why. But what did the foolish fellow think he was doing, clambering over the rooftops like that, with limbs that would smash if the stupid creature so much as fell off a table? A glass man certainly wasn’t the ideal spy, but then again their small size made them very inconspicuous — and, fragile as their limbs were, their transparency undoubtedly came in useful on secret reconnaissance missions.

"Well, what’s he writing? Come on, out with it!" FenogliO picked up the jug and made his way over to the glass man barefoot. Rosenquartz demanded a thimbleful of red wine in return for his spying activities, which as he never tired of emphasizing -

were not among the standard duties of a glass man, and thus called for extra payment. The thimble of wine wasn’t too high a price, Fenoglio had to admit, but then so far Rosenquartz hadn’t found out very much, and in addition the wine disagreed with him. It made him even more contrary than usual — and had him belching for hours on end.

"Can’t I even get my breath back before making my report?" he snapped.

That was Rosenquartz for you: contrary. And always so quick to take offense!

"You’re breathing now, aren’t you? And you can obviously talk as well!" Fenoglio plucked the glass man off the thread that he had fastened to the skylight so that Rosenquartz could let himself down from it and carried him over to the table. He’d exchanged his writing desk for it in the marketplace.