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weariness and she fell asleep. Beside her Mo read on and on while the orange moon shone in the

foreign sky outside.

When a confused dream woke her with a start sometime in the night, Mo was still sitting up in

bed, the open book in his hand. The moon had disappeared long ago, and there was nothing but

darkness to be seen through the window.

"Can't you sleep?" asked Meggie, sitting up.

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"It was my left arm that stupid dog bit — and you know I sleep best on my left side. Anyway,

there's too much going around in my head."

"There's a lot going around in my head, too." Meggie turned to the bedside table and picked up

the book of poems that Elinor had given her. She stroked the binding, passed her hand over the

curved spine, and traced the letters on the jacket with her forefinger. "You know something,

Mo?" she said hesitantly. "I think I'd like to be able to do it, too."

"Do what?"

Meggie stroked the binding of the book again. She thought she could hear the pages whispering

very quietly. "Read like that," she said. "Read aloud the way you do and make everything come

to life."

Mo looked at her. "You're out of your mind!" he said. "That's what has caused all the trouble

we're in."

"I know."

Mo closed his book, leaving his finger between the pages.

"Read me something aloud, Mo!" said Meggie quietly. "Please. Just for once." She offered him the

book of poems. "Elinor gave me this as a present. She said nothing much could happen if you

did."

"Oh, did she?" Mo opened the book. "Suppose it does, though?" He leafed through the smooth

white pages.

Meggie put her pillow close to his.

"Do you really have any idea how you might be able to read Dustfinger back into his story? Or

were you making it up?"

"Nonsense. I'm useless at telling lies, as you know."

"Yes, I do." Meggie couldn't help smiling. "Well, what's your idea?"

"I'll tell you when I know if it works."

Mo was still leafing through Elinor's book. Frowning, he read a page, turned it over, and read

another.

"Please, Mo!" Meggie moved closer to him. "Just one poem. A tiny little poem. Please. For me."

He sighed. "Just one?"

Meggie nodded.

Outside the noise of the cars had died down. The world Was as quiet as if it had spun itself into a

cocoon like a moth preparing itself to slip out in the morning, young again and good as new.

"Please, Mo, read to me!" said Meggie.

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So Mo began filling the silence with words. He lured them out of the pages as if they had only

been waiting for his voice, words long and short, words sharp and soft, cooing, purring words.

They danced through the room, painting stained-glass pictures, tickling the skin. Even when

Meggie nodded off she could still hear them, although Mo had closed the book long ago. Words

that explained the world to her, its dark side and its light side, words that built a wall to keep out

bad dreams. And not a single bad dream came over the wall for the rest of that night.

The next morning, a bird flew down and perched on Meggie's bed, a bird as orange as the light of

last night's moon. She tried to catch it, but it flew away to the window where the blue sky was

waiting for it. It collided with the invisible glass again and again, bumping its tiny head, until Mo

opened the window and let it out.

"Well, do you still wish you could do it?" asked Mo when Meggie had watched the bird fly away

until it merged with the blue of the sky.

"It was beautiful!" she said.

"Yes, but will it like this world?" asked Mo. "And what's gone to replace it in the world it came

from?"

Meggie stayed by the window as Mo went downstairs to pay their bill. She remembered the last

poem that Mo had read before she fell asleep. She picked up the book from her bedside table,

hesitated for a moment — and opened it.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends, And before the street begins, And there the grass grows

soft and white, And there the sun bums crimson bright, And there the moon- bird rests from his

flight, To cool in the peppermint wind.

She whispered the words aloud as she read them, but no moon-bird flew down from the lamp.

And she must have been just imagining the smell of peppermint.

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Chapter 24 – Fenoglio

You don't know about me, without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of

Tom Sawyer, but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told

the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.

– Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Dustfinger and Farid were waiting for them in the parking lot when they left the hotel. Over the

nearby hills, a warm wind was slowly driving rain clouds toward the sea. Everything seemed

gray today, even the houses with their bright color-washed walls and the flowering shrubs in the

streets. Mo took the coastal road, which Elinor had said was built by the Romans, and followed it

farther west.

All through the drive the sea lay to their left, its water stretching to the horizon, sometimes

hidden by houses, sometimes by trees, but this morning it didn't look half as inviting as it had on

the day Meggie had come down from the mountains with Elinor and Dustfinger. The gray of the

sky cast a dull reflection on the blue waves, and the sea spray foamed like dirty dishwater.

Several times, Meggie found her gaze wandering to the hills on her right. Capricorn's village was

hidden somewhere among them. Once, she even thought she saw its pale church tower in a dark

fold of the hills, and her heart beat faster though she knew that it couldn't possibly be

Capricorn's church. Her feet remembered all too well how long that endless journey down the

mountainside had been.

Mo was driving faster than usual, much faster. Obviously he could hardly wait to reach their

destination. After a good hour they turned off the coast road and followed a narrow, winding

lane through a valley gray with buildings. Greenhouses covered the hills here, their panes

painted white for protection against the sun that was now hidden behind clouds. Only when the

road went uphill did the country on both sides turn green again. The buildings gave way to

natural meadow-land, and stunted olive trees lined the road, which forked unexpectedly a

couple of times. Mo had to keep consulting the map he had bought, but finally the right name

appeared on a sign.

They drove into a small village, little more than a square, a few dozen houses, and a church that

looked very much like Capricorn's. When Meggie got out of the car she saw the sea far below.

The waves were so rough on this overcast day that, even from this distance, she could see the

breakers. Mo had parked in the village square beside the memorial for the dead of two world

wars. The list of names was long for such a small place. Meggie thought there were almost as

many names as the village had houses.

'You can leave the car unlocked. I'll keep an eye on it," Dustfinger as Mo was about to lock up. He

threw his pack over his shoulder, put the sleepy Gwin on his chain, and sat on the steps in front

of the war memorial. Farid sat down beside him without a word. Meggie looked uneasily at them

both as she followed Mo.

"Remember, you promised not to mention me!" Dustfinger called after them.

"Yes, all right!" replied Mo.

Farid was playing with matches again. Meggie caught him at it when she looked around once

more. By now he could extinguish the burning matches with his mouth quite well, but all the

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same Dustfinger took the box of matches away from him, and Farid looked sadly at his empty

hands.

Meggie had met many people who loved books, sold them, collected them, printed them or, like

her father, prevented them from falling apart, but she had never before met anyone who wrote

the words that filled a book's pages. She didn't even know the names of the authors of some of

her favorite stories, let alone what they looked like. She had seen only the characters who

emerged from the words to meet her, never the writer who had made them up. It was just as Mo

had said: In general one thought of writers as dead or very, very old. But the man who opened

the door to them, after Mo had rung the bell twice, was neither. That is, he was certainly quite

old, at least in Meggie's eyes: in his mid-sixties or even older. His face was wrinkled like a

turtle's, but his hair was black, without a trace of gray (she was to find out later that he dyed it),

and he didn't look at all fragile. On the contrary: He planted himself so impressively in the

doorway that Meggie instantly tongue-tied. Luckily Mo was not. "Signer Fenoglio?" he asked.

"Yes?" The face looked less forthcoming than ever. There was disapproval in every line of it. But

Mo seemed undaunted.

"I'm Mortimer Folchart," he introduced himself, "and this is my daughter, Meggie. I'm here about

one of your books."

A boy appeared at the door beside Fenoglio, a little boy of about five, and a small girl joined

them on the other side of the doorway. She stared curiously, first at Mo, then at Meggie. "Pippo's

picked the chocolate chips out of the cake," Meggie heard her whisper as she looked anxiously

up at Mo. When his eyes twinkled at her she disappeared behind Fenoglio's back, giggling. But

Fenoglio himself still looked anything but friendly.

"Allthe chocolate chips?" he growled. "Very well, I'm coming. You go and tell Pippo he's in

serious trouble." The little girl nodded and ran away, obviously happy to be the bearer of bad

news. The small boy clung to Fenoglio's leg.

"A very particular book," Mo went on. "Inkheart.You wrote it quite a long time ago, and

unfortunately I can't buy a copy anywhere now." With the man's icy stare still resting on her

father, Meggie could only marvel that the words didn't freeze on Mo's lips.

"Oh yes. So?" Fenoglio crossed his arms. The girl appeared on his left again. "Pippo's hiding," she

said.

"That won't do him any good," said Fenoglio. "I can always find him." The little girl scurried off

again. Meggie heard her in the house, calling to the chocolate thief. Fenoglio, however, turned

back to Mo. "So, what do you want? If you're planning to ask me clever questions of some kind

about the book, forget it. I don't have time for that sort of thing. Any-way, as you said yourself, I

wrote it ages ago."

No, there's only one question I was going to ask. I'd like to know if you still have any copies, and

if so may I buy one from you?"

The old man's expression was no longer quite so forbidding as he inspected Mo. "How

extraordinary. You must be really keen on the book," he murmured. "I'm flattered. Although," he

added, and his face darkened again, "I hope you're not one of those idiots who collect rare books

just because they're rare, are you?"

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Mo couldn't help smiling. "No," he said. "I want to read it, that's all. I just want to read it."

Fenoglio braced an arm against the door frame and looked at the house opposite as if he feared

it might collapse at any moment. The street where he lived was so narrow that Mo could have

touched both sides at once if he stretched out his arms. Many of the houses were built of coarse

blocks of sandy gray stone, like the houses in Capricorn's village, but here there were flowers in

window boxes and pots of plants on the steps, and many of the shutters looked as if they had

been freshly painted. There was a baby carriage outside one house, a moped leaning against the

wall of another, and voices floated into the street from open windows. Capricorn's village

probably looked like this once, thought Meggie.

An old woman passing by looked suspiciously at the strangers. Fenoglio nodded to her,

murmured a brief greeting, and waited until she had vanished behind a green-painted front

door. "Inkheart," he said. "That really is a long time ago. And it's odd that you should be asking

about that one, of all my books."

The girl came back. She tugged Fenoglio's sleeve and whispered something in his ear. Fenoglio's

turtle face twisted m a smile. Meggie liked him better that way. "Oh, that's where he always

hides, Paula," he told the little girl softly. "Perhaps you should advise him to try a better hiding

place."

Paula ran off for the third time, but not before gazing curiously at Meggie first.

"Well, you'd better come in," said Fenoglio. Without another word he showed Mo and Meggie

into the house, went down a dark, narrow hallway ahead of them, limping because the little boy

was still clinging to his leg like a monkey, and pushed open the door to the kitchen, where the

ruins of a cake stood on the table. Its brown icing was as full of holes as the binding of a book