Inkheart, Page 4

  For a moment Meggie felt like saying no, it wasn’t. She would have loved to surprise Elinor by showing contempt for her precious books, but she couldn’t do it. Her curiosity was too much for her. She felt almost as if she could hear the books whispering on the other side of the half-open door. They were promising her a thousand unknown stories, a thousand doors into worlds she had never seen before. The temptation was stronger than Meggie’s pride.

  ‘Agreed,’ she murmured, clasping her hands behind her back. ‘Three paces.’ Her fingers were itching with desire.

  ‘Sensible child,’ said Elinor, so condescendingly that Meggie almost went back on her decision. But then they entered Elinor’s holy of holies.

  ‘You’ve had the place renovated,’ Meggie heard Mo say. He added something else, but she wasn’t listening any more. She was just staring at the books. The shelves on which they stood smelled of freshly sawn wood. They went all the way up to a sky-blue ceiling with tiny lights in it, hanging there like stars. Narrow wooden stepladders on castors stood by the shelves, ready to help any reader up to the top shelves. There were reading desks with books lying open on them, held in place by brass chains that shone like gold. There were glass display cases containing books with pages stained by age but showing the most wonderful pictures. Meggie couldn’t resist moving closer. One step forward, a quick glance at Elinor, who luckily had her back turned, and she was right beside the display case. She bent lower and lower over the glass until her nose was touching it.

  Prickly leaves twined around pale brown letters. A tiny red dragon’s head was spitting out flowers over the stained paper. Riders on white horses looked at Meggie as if scarcely a day had passed since someone painted them with tiny marten-hair brushes. A man and woman stood beside them, perhaps a bridal couple. A man with a bright red hat was looking angrily at them.

  ‘You call that three paces?’

  Meggie spun round in alarm, but Elinor didn’t seem too angry. ‘Yes, the art of illumination,’ she said. ‘Once only rich people could read, so the pictures painted round the letters were to help the poor to understand the stories too. Of course no one planned to give them pleasure – the poor were put into the world to work, not to have a nice time or look at pretty pictures. That kind of thing was only for the rich. No, the idea was to instruct the poor. Usually the stories came from the Bible and everyone knew them anyway. The books were put in churches, and a page was turned every day to show a new picture.’

  ‘What about this book?’ asked Meggie.

  ‘I shouldn’t think this one was ever in a church,’ replied Elinor. ‘More likely it was made for a very rich man to enjoy. It’s almost six hundred years old.’ There was no missing the pride in her voice. ‘People have committed murder for such a book. Luckily, I only had to buy it.’

  As she spoke these last words she turned abruptly and looked at Dustfinger, who had followed them into the library, soundless as a prowling cat. For a moment Meggie thought Elinor would send him back into the corridor, but Dustfinger stood in front of the shelves looking so impressed, with his hands behind his back, that he gave her no reason to turn him out, so she just cast him a final distrustful glance and turned back to Mo.

  He was standing at one of the reading desks with a book in his hand. Its spine hung only by a couple of threads. He held it very carefully, like a bird with a broken wing.

  ‘Well?’ asked Elinor anxiously. ‘Can you save it? I know it’s in terrible shape, and I’m afraid the others aren’t in a much better way, but …’

  ‘Oh, that can all be put right.’ Mo put the book down and inspected another. ‘But I think it will take me at least two weeks. If I don’t have to get hold of more materials, which could mean I need more time. Will you put up with us that long?’

  ‘Of course.’ Elinor nodded, but Meggie noticed the glance she cast at Dustfinger. He was still standing beside the shelves near the door and seemed entirely absorbed in looking at the books, but Meggie sensed that he had missed none of what was said behind his back.

  There were no books in Elinor’s kitchen, not one, but they ate an excellent supper there at a wooden table that came, so Elinor assured them, from the scriptorium of an Italian monastery. Meggie doubted it. As far as she knew, the monks had worked at desks with sloping tops in the scriptoria of their monasteries, but she kept this information to herself. Instead, she took another slice of bread, and was just wondering how nice the cheese standing on the supposed scriptorium table would be when she noticed Mo whispering something to Elinor. Since Elinor’s eyes widened greedily, Meggie concluded that they could only be discussing a book, and she immediately thought of brown paper, a pale green linen binding, and the anger in Mo’s voice.

  Beside her, Dustfinger surreptitiously slipped a slice of ham into his rucksack for Gwin’s supper. Meggie saw a round nose emerge from the rucksack, snuffling in the hope of more delicacies. Dustfinger smiled at Meggie when he noticed her looking at him and gave Gwin some more ham. He didn’t seem to find anything odd about Mo and Elinor’s whispering, but Meggie was sure the two of them were planning something secret.

  After a short time Mo rose from the table and went out. Meggie asked Elinor where the bathroom was – and followed him.

  It was a strange feeling to be spying on Mo. She couldn’t remember ever doing it before – except last night, when Dustfinger had arrived. And the time when she had tried to find out whether Mo was Father Christmas. She was ashamed of stealing after him like this, but it was his own fault. Why was he hiding the book from her? And now he might be going to give it to this Elinor – a book Meggie wasn’t allowed to see! Ever since Mo had hurriedly hidden it behind his back, Meggie hadn’t been able to get it out of her head. She had even looked for it in Mo’s bag before he loaded his things into the van, but she couldn’t find it.

  She just had to see it before it disappeared, maybe into one of Elinor’s display cases! She had to know why it meant so much to Mo that, for its sake, he would drag her all the way here.

  He looked round once more in the entrance hall before leaving the house, but Meggie ducked down behind a chest just in time. The chest smelled of mothballs and lavender. She decided to stay in hiding there until Mo came back. He’d be sure to see her if she went out of doors. Time passed painfully slowly, as it always does when you’re waiting for something with your heart thumping hard. The books in the white bookcases seemed to be watching Meggie, but they said nothing to her, as if they sensed that there was only one book Meggie could think about just now.

  Finally, Mo came back carrying a package wrapped in brown paper. Perhaps he’s just going to hide it here, thought Meggie. Where could you hide a book better than among ten thousand others? Yes, Mo was going to leave it here and then they’d drive home again. But I would like to see it, thought Meggie, just once, before it’s put on one of those shelves I’m supposed to stay three paces away from.

  Mo passed her so close that she could have touched him, but he didn’t notice her. ‘Meggie, don’t look at me like that!’ he sometimes told her. ‘You’re reading my thoughts again.’

  Now he looked anxious – as if he wasn’t quite sure he was doing the right thing. Meggie counted slowly to three before following her father, but a couple of times Mo stopped so suddenly that Meggie almost ran into him. He didn’t return to the kitchen but went straight to the library. Without looking back once, he opened the door with the Venetian printer’s mark on it, and closed it quietly behind him.

  So, there stood Meggie among all the silent books, wondering whether to follow him and ask him to show her the book. Would he be very angry? She was just about to summon up all her courage and go after him when she heard footsteps – rapid, firm footsteps, quick and impatient. That could only be Elinor. Now what?

  Meggie opened the nearest door and slipped through it. A four-poster bed, a wardrobe, silver-framed photographs, a pile of books on the bedside table, a catalogue lying open on the rug, its pages full of pictures of old books.
She was in Elinor’s bedroom. Heart thudding, she listened for noises outside; she could hear Elinor’s energetic footsteps and then the sound of the library door closing for the second time. Cautiously, she slipped out into the corridor again. She was still standing outside the library, undecided, when she felt a hand suddenly laid on her shoulder from behind. Another hand stifled her cry of alarm.

  ‘It’s only me!’ breathed Dustfinger into her ear. ‘Keep quiet or we’re both in trouble, understand?’

  Meggie nodded, and Dustfinger slowly took his hand away from her mouth. ‘Your father’s going to give the old witch that book, right?’ he whispered. ‘Has he taken it out of the van? Tell me. He did have it with him, didn’t he?’

  Meggie pushed him away. ‘I don’t know!’ she snapped. ‘Anyway, what business is it of yours?’

  ‘What business is it of mine?’ Dustfinger laughed quietly. ‘Well, perhaps I’ll tell you some time. But just now all I want to know is whether you’ve seen it.’

  Meggie shook her head. She didn’t know herself why she was lying to Dustfinger. Perhaps because he had pressed his hand over her mouth a little too hard.

  ‘Meggie, listen to me!’ Dustfinger looked at her intently. His scars were like pale lines that someone had drawn on his cheeks: two slightly curved marks on the left cheek, a third and longer line on the right cheek running from ear to nostril. ‘Capricorn will kill your father if he doesn’t get that book!’ hissed Dustfinger. ‘Kill him, do you understand? Didn’t I tell you what he’s like? He wants the book, and he always gets what he wants. It’s ridiculous to believe it will be safe from him here.’

  ‘Mo doesn’t think so!’

  Dustfinger straightened up and stared at the library door. ‘Yes, I know,’ he murmured. ‘That’s the trouble. And so,’ he said, putting both hands on Meggie’s shoulders and propelling her towards the closed door, ‘so now you’re going to go in there, the picture of innocence, and find out what the pair of them are planning to do with that book. OK?’

  Meggie was about to protest, but before she knew it Dustfinger had opened the door and pushed her into the library.

  5

  Only a Picture

  For him that stealeth, or borroweth and returneth not, this book from its owner, let it change into a serpent in his hand and rend him.

  Let him be struck with palsy, and all his members blasted. Let him languish in pain, crying aloud for mercy, and let there be no surcease to this agony till he sing in dissolution. Let bookworms gnaw his entrails … and when at last he goeth to his last punishment, let the flames of hell consume him for ever.

  Curse on book thieves,

  from the monastery of San Pedro,

  Barcelona, Spain

  They had unwrapped the book. Meggie saw the brown paper lying on a chair. Neither of them noticed that she had come in; Elinor was bending over one of the reading desks with Mo beside her. They both had their backs to the door.

  ‘Amazing. I thought there wasn’t a single copy left,’ Elinor was saying. ‘There are strange stories about this book going around. A second-hand dealer from whom I buy quite often told me that three copies were stolen from him a few years ago. All on the same day too. And I’ve heard much the same story from two other booksellers.’

  ‘Really? Yes, very strange,’ said Mo, but Meggie knew his voice well enough to know that he was only pretending to be surprised. ‘Well, anyway, even if this wasn’t a rare book it means a lot to me, and I’d like to be sure it’s in safe hands for a while. Just till I come back for it.’

  ‘All books are in safe hands with me,’ replied Elinor, sounding cross. ‘You know that. They’re my children, my inky children, and I look after them well. I keep the sunlight away from their pages, I dust them and protect them from hungry bookworms and grubby human fingers. This one shall have a place of honour, and no one will see it until you want it back. I don’t really welcome visitors to my library. They just leave fingerprints and stray hairs in my poor books. Anyway, as you know, I have a very expensive burglar alarm system.’

  ‘Yes, that’s extremely reassuring!’ Mo’s voice sounded relieved. ‘Thank you, Elinor! I really am most grateful. And if anyone comes knocking at your door in the near future asking about the book, please will you make out you’ve never heard of it, all right?’

  ‘Of course. I’d do anything for a good bookbinder, and anyway you’re my niece’s husband. I really do miss her sometimes, you know. I expect you feel the same. Your daughter seems to be getting on all right without her, though.’

  ‘She hardly remembers her mother,’ said Mo quietly.

  ‘Well, that’s a blessing, wouldn’t you say? Sometimes it’s a good thing we don’t remember things half as well as books do. But for them we probably wouldn’t know anything for very long. It would all be forgotten: the Trojan War, Columbus, Marco Polo, Shakespeare, all the amazing kings and gods of the past …’ Elinor turned round – and froze.

  ‘Did I fail to hear you knock?’ she asked, staring so angrily that Meggie had to summon up all her courage not to turn round and slip quickly back out into the passage.

  ‘How long have you been there, Meggie?’ asked Mo.

  Meggie stuck her chin out. ‘She can see it, but you hide it away from me!’ she said. Attack, she knew, is the best form of defence. ‘You never hid any book from me before! What’s so special about this one? Will I go blind if I read it? Will it bite my fingers off? What terrible secrets are there in it that I mustn’t know?’

  ‘I have my reasons for not showing it to you,’ replied Mo. He looked very pale. Without another word he went over and tried to lead her to the door, but Meggie tore herself away.

  ‘Pig-headed, isn’t she?’ remarked Elinor. ‘It almost makes me like her! Her mother was just the same, I remember. Come here.’ She stepped aside and beckoned Meggie over. ‘Look, you can see there’s nothing very exciting about this book, at least not to you. But see for yourself. We’re always most likely to believe the evidence of our own eyes. Or doesn’t your father agree?’ She cast Mo an enquiring glance.

  Mo hesitated, then resigned himself and nodded.

  The book was lying open on the reading desk. It didn’t seem particularly old. Meggie knew what really old books looked like. She had seen books in Mo’s workshop with their pages spotted like leopard-skin and almost as yellow. She remembered one with a binding that had been attacked by woodworm. The traces of their jaws had looked like tiny bullet holes, and Mo had got out his book block, carefully fixed the pages back together, and then, as he put it, gave them a new dress. Such a dress could be made of leather or linen, it might be plain, or Mo might imprint a pattern on it with his tiny decorative stamps.

  This book was bound in linen, silvery green like willow leaves. The edges of the pages were slightly roughened, and the paper was still so pale that every letter stood out clear and black. A narrow red bookmark lay between the open pages. The right-hand page had an illustration on it, showing women in magnificent dresses, a fire-eater, acrobats, and a man who looked like a king. Meggie turned the pages. There weren’t many illustrations, but the first letter of each chapter was itself a little decorative picture. Animals sat on some of these initial letters, plants twined round others, one ‘F’ burned bright as fire. The flames looked so real that Meggie touched them with one finger to make sure they weren’t hot. The next chapter began with an ‘N’. An animal with a furry tail sat perched in the angle between the second and third strokes of the letter. No one saw him slip out of town, read Meggie, but before she could get any further with the story Elinor closed the book in her face.

  ‘I think that’ll do,’ she said, tucking it under her arm. ‘Your father’s asked me to put this book somewhere safe for him, and so I will.’

  Mo took Meggie’s hand again, and this time she followed him. ‘Please forget that book, Meggie!’ he whispered. ‘It’s an unlucky story. I’ll get you a hundred others.’

  Meggie just nodded. Before Mo closed the do
or behind them, she caught a last glance of Elinor standing there looking at the book lovingly, the way Mo sometimes looked at her when he put her to bed in the evening.

  Then the door was closed.

  ‘Where will she put it?’ asked Meggie as she followed Mo down the corridor.

  ‘Oh, she has some very good hiding-places for such things,’ replied Mo evasively. ‘But they’re secret, as hiding-places ought to be. Suppose I show you your room now?’ He was trying to sound carefree, and not succeeding particularly well. ‘It’s like a room in an expensive hotel. No, much better.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ murmured Meggie, looking round, but there was no sign of Dustfinger. Where had he gone? She had to ask him something. At once. That was all she could think of while Mo was showing her the room and telling her that everything was all right now; he just had to do his bookbinding work, then they’d go home. Meggie nodded and pretended to be listening, but her mind was full of the question she wanted to ask Dustfinger. It burned on her lips so fiercely that she was surprised Mo didn’t see it there.

  When Mo left her to go and fetch their bags from the camper van Meggie went into the kitchen, but Dustfinger wasn’t there either. She even looked for him in Elinor’s bedroom, but however many doors in the huge house she opened there was no sign of him. Finally, she was too tired to go on searching. Mo had gone to bed long ago, and Elinor had disappeared into her own bedroom. So Meggie went to her room and lay down in the big bed. She felt very lost in it, like a dwarf, as if she had shrunk. Like Alice in Wonderland, she thought, patting the flowered bed linen. Otherwise she liked the room. It was full of books and pictures, and there was even a fireplace, although it looked as if no one had used it for at least a hundred years. Meggie swung her legs out of bed again and went over to the window. Outside, night had fallen long ago, and when she pushed the window shutters open a cool breeze blew on her face. The only thing she could make out in the dark was the gravel forecourt in front of the house. A lamp cast pale light over the grey and white pebbles. Mo’s stripey van stood beside Elinor’s grey estate car like a zebra lost in a horse’s stable. Meggie thought of the house they had left in such a hurry, and her room there, and school, where her desk would have been empty today. She wasn’t sure whether she felt homesick or not.

  She left the shutters open when she went back to bed. Mo had put her book-box beside her. Wearily, she took a book out and tried to make herself a nice nest in its familiar words, but it was no good. Again and again the thought of that other book blurred the words, again and again Meggie saw the big initial letters before her – large, colourful letters surrounded by figures whose story she didn’t know because the book hadn’t had time to tell it to her.

  I must find Dustfinger, she thought sleepily. He must be here somewhere. But then the book slipped from her fingers and she fell asleep.

  The sun woke her next morning. The air was still cool from the night before, but the sky was cloudless, and when Meggie leaned out of the window she could see the lake gleaming in the distance beyond the branches of the trees. The room Elinor had given her was on the first floor. Mo was sleeping only two doors further along, but Dustfinger had to make do with an attic room. Meggie had seen it when she was looking for him yesterday. It held nothing but a narrow bed surrounded by crates of books towering up to the rafters.

  Mo was already sitting at the table with Elinor when Meggie came down to the kitchen for breakfast, but Dustfinger wasn’t there. ‘Oh, he’s had breakfast already,’ said Elinor sharply, when Meggie asked about him. ‘Along with some animal like a Pomeranian dog. It was sitting on the table and it spat at me when I came into the kitchen. I wasn’t expecting anything like that. I made it clear to your peculiar friend that flies are the only animals I’ll allow anywhere near my kitchen table, and so he took the furry creature outside.’

  ‘What do you want him for?’ asked Mo.

  ‘Oh, nothing special. I – I just wanted to ask him something,’ said Meggie. She hastily ate half a slice of bread, drank some of the horribly bitter cocoa Elinor had made, and went out.

  She found Dustfinger behind the house, standing on a lawn of short, rather rough grass where a solitary deckchair stood next to a plaster angel. There was no sign of Gwin. A few birds were quarrelling among the red flowers of the rhododendron, and there stood Dustfinger looking lost