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when bookworms have been gnawing at it for years.

"Pippo?" Fenoglio bellowed so loudly that even Meggie jumped, although she didn't feel guilty of

any naughtiness. "I know you can hear me. And I warn you I shall tie a knot in your nose for

every hole in this cake. Understand?"

Meggie heard a giggle. It seemed to come from the cupboard next to the fridge. Fenoglio broke a

piece off the cake with the holes still in it. "Paula," he said, "give this girl a slice if she doesn't

mind the missing chocolate." Paula emerged from under the table and looked inquiringly at

Meggie.

"I don't mind," said Meggie, whereupon Paula took a huge knife, cut an enormous piece of cake,

and put it on the table in front of her.

"Pippo, let's have one of the rose-patterned plates," said Fenoglio, and a hand stuck out of the

cupboard holding a plate in its chocolate-brown fingers. Meggie was quick to take the plate

before it dropped, and put the piece of cake on it.

"What about you?" Fenoglio asked Mo.

"I'd prefer the book," said Mo. He was looking rather pale.

Fenoglio removed the little boy from his leg and sat down.

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"Go and find another tree to climb, Rico," he said. Then he looked thoughtfully at Mo. "I'm afraid

I can't help you," he said. "I don't have a single copy left. They were stolen, all of them. I lent

them to an exhibition of old children's books in Genoa: a lavishly illustrated special edition, a

copy with a signed dedication by the illustrator, and the two copies that belonged to my own

children with all their scribbled comments — I always asked them to mark the bits they liked

best — and finally my own personal copy. Every last one of them stolen two days after the

exhibition opened."

Mo ran a hand over his face as if he could wipe the disappointment off it. "Stolen," he said. "Of

course."

"Of course?" Fenoglio narrowed his eyes and looked at Mo with great curiosity. "You'll have to

explain. In fact I'm not letting you out of my house until I find out why you're interested in this of

all my books. In fact, I might set the children on you — and you wouldn't like that!"

Mo tried for a smile, without much success. "My copy was stolen as well," he said at last. "And

that was a very special edition, too."

"Extraordinary." Fenoglio raised his eyebrows, which were like hairy caterpillars creeping above

his eyes. "Come on, let's hear your story." All the hostility had vanished from his face. Curiosity,

pure curiosity, had won out. In Fenoglio's eyes Meggie saw the same insatiable hunger for a

good new story that overcame her at the sight of any new and exciting book.

"There's not much to tell," said Mo. Meggie heard in his voice that he didn't intend to tell the old

man the truth. "I restore books. That's how I make my living. I found yours in a secondhand

bookstore some years ago, and I was going to give it a new binding, then sell it, but I liked it so

much I kept it instead. And now it's been stolen and I've been trying in vain to buy another copy.

A friend who knows a great deal about rare books and how to get hold of them finally suggested

I might try the author himself. She was the person who found me your address. So I came here."

Fenoglio wiped a few cake crumbs off the table. "Fine," he said, "but that's not the whole story."

"What do you mean?"

The old man scrutinized Mo's face until he turned his head away and looked out of the narrow

kitchen window. "I mean I can smell a good story miles away, so don't try keeping one from me.

Out with it! And then you can have a piece of this magnificently perforated cake."

Paula clambered up onto Fenoglio's lap, nestled her head under his chin, and looked at Mo as

expectantly as the old man himself had.

But Mo shook his head. "No, I think I'd better say no more. You wouldn't believe a word of it

anyway."

"Oh, I'd believe all manner of things!" Fenoglio assured Mo, cutting him a slice of cake. "I'd

believe any story at all just so long as it's well told."

The cupboard door opened a crack, and Meggie saw a boy's head emerge. "What about my

punishment?" he asked. Judging by his fingers, which were sticky with chocolate, this must be

Pippo.

"Later," said Fenoglio. "I have something else to do now."

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Disappointed, Pippo came out of the cupboard. "You said you were going to tie knots in my

nose."

"Double knots, seaman's knots, butterfly knots, any knots YOU fancy, but I have to hear this

story first. So go and fool around with something else until I have time for you."

Pippo stuck his lower lip out sulkily and disappeared into the corridor. Rico, the little boy, ran

after him.

Mo remained silent, pushing cake crumbs off the rough tabletop, drawing invisible patterns on

the wood with his forefinger. "There's someone in this story, and I've promised not to tell you

about him," he said at last.

"Keeping a bad promise makes it no better," said Fenoglio "Or at least so a favorite book of mine

says."

"I don't know if it was a bad promise." Mo sighed and looked up at the ceiling as if the answer

might be found there. "Very well," he said. "I'll tell you. But Dustfinger will murder me if he finds

out."

"Dustfinger? I once called a character that. Oh yes, of course, the poor trickster in Inkheart. I

killed him off in the last chapter but one. A very touching scene. I cried tears while I was writing

it."

Meggie almost choked on the piece of cake she had just put in her mouth, but Fenoglio went on

calmly. "I haven't killed off many of my characters, but sometimes it just happens. Death scenes

aren't easy to write — they can too easily get sentimental — but I thought I did pretty well with

Dustfinger's death."

Horrified, Meggie looked at Mo. "He dies? Did — did you know that?"

"Yes, of course. I've read the whole story, Meggie."

"But why didn't you tell him?"

"He didn't want to know."

Fenoglio was following this exchange with a puzzled look on his face — and with great curiosity.

"Whokills him?" asked Meggie. "Basta?"

"Ah, Basta!" Fenoglio smiled. Each of his separate wrinkles expressed self-satisfaction. "One of

the best villains I ever thought up. A rabid dog, but not half as bad as my other dark hero

Capricorn. Basta would have let his heart be torn out for Capricorn, but his master is a stranger

to such loyalty. He feels nothing, nothing at all, he doesn't even enjoy his own cruelty. Yes, I

really did think up some pretty dark characters for Inkheart. And then there's the Shadow,

Capricorn's hound, as I always called him to myself. Though of course that's far too friendly a

name for such a monster."

"The Shadow?" Meggie's voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Does he kill Dustfinger?"

"No, no. I'm sorry, I'd quite forgotten your question. Once I begin talking about my characters it's

hard to stop me. No, one of Capricorn's men kills Dustfinger. It was a very successful scene.

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Dustfinger has some kind of tame marten. Capricorn's man wants to kill it because he enjoys

killing small animals, so Dustfinger tries to save his furry friend and dies in the attempt."

Meggie said nothing. Poor Dustfinger, she thought. Poor, poor Dustfinger. She couldn't think of

anything else. "Which of Capricorn's men does it?" she asked. "Flatnose? Or Cockerell?"

Fenoglio looked at her in surprise. "Well, fancy that. You know all their names? I usually forget

them soon after I've made them up."

"It's neither of them, Meggie," said Mo. "The murderer's name isn't even mentioned in the book.

A whole pack of Capricorn's men is hunting Gwin, and one of them draws a knife and uses it. A

man who's probably still waiting for Dustfinger."

"Waiting for him?" Fenoglio looked at Mo, confused.

"That's terrible!" whispered Meggie. "I'm glad I didn't read any more."

"What do you mean? Are you talking about my book?" Fenoglio's voice sounded hurt.

"Yes," said Meggie. "I am." She looked at Mo, a question in her eyes. "And Capricorn? Who kills

him?"

"No one."

"No one!"

Meggie stared at Fenoglio so accusingly that he rubbed his nose awkwardly. It was an

impressive nose. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he cried. "Yes, I let him get away with it.

He's one of my best villains. How could I kill him off? It's the same in real life: Notorious

murderers get off scot-free and live happily all their lives, while good people die — sometimes

the very best people. That's the way of the world. Why should it be different in books?"

"What about Basta? Does he stay alive, too?" Meggie remembered what Farid had said back in

the ruined hovel: "Why not kill them? That's what they were going to do to us!"

"Basta stays alive, too," replied Fenoglio. "I remember toying for some time with the idea of

writing a sequel to Inkheart, and I didn't want to do without those two. I was proud of them! And

the Shadow was quite a success, too, yes, he really was, but I'm always most attached to my

human characters. You know, if you were to ask me which of those two I was prouder of, Basta

or Capricorn, I couldn't tell you! Even though some critics said they were just too nasty!"

Mo stared out of the window again. Then he looked at Fenoglio. "Would you like to meet them?"

he asked.

"Meet who?" Fenoglio looked at him in surprise.

"Capricorn and Basta."

"Good God, no!" Fenoglio laughed so loud that Paula, quite frightened, put her hand over his

mouth.

"Well, we did," said Mo wearily. "Meggie and I — and Dustfinger."

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Chapter 25 – The Wrong Ending

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons

attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it

will be shot.

BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR per G.G., CHIEF OF ORDNANCE

– Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Fenoglio said nothing for a long time after Mo had finished his story. Paula had gone off long ago

in search of Pippo and Rico. Meggie heard them running over the wooden floorboards above

them, back and forth, jumping, sliding, giggling, and squealing. But in Fenoglio's kitchen it was so

quiet you could hear the tick of the clock on the wall by the window.

"Does he have those scars on his face? I expect you know what I mean? The fairies treated the

cuts — that's why there are only slight scars left, little more than three pale lines on the skin, is

that right?" Fenoglio looked inquiringly at Mo, who nodded.

Fenoglio looked out of the window again, brushing a few crumbs off his pants. "Basra scarred

him," he said. "They both fancied the same girl."

Mo nodded. "Yes, I know."

A window was open in the house opposite, and you could hear a woman scolding a child inside.

"I suppose I ought to feel very, very proud," murmured Fenoglio. "Every writer wants to create

lifelike characters — and mine are so lifelike they've walked straight off the page!"

"That's because my father read them out of the book," said Meggie. "He can do it with other

books, too."

"Yes, of course." Fenoglio nodded. "A good thing you reminded me. Otherwise I might start

taking myself for a minor god, mightn't I? But I'm sorry about your mother — although

depending on how you look at it, that wasn't really my fault."

"It's worse for my father," said Meggie. "I don't remember her."

Mo looked at her, startled.

"Of course not. You were younger than my grandchildren," said Fenoglio thoughtfully. "I'd really

like to see him," he added. "Dustfinger, I mean. Naturally I'm sorry now that I thought up such an

unhappy ending for the poor fellow, but it somehow seemed right for him. As Shakespeare puts

it so well, 'Everybody plays his part, and mine is a sad one.'" He looked out into the street.

Something fell and broke on the floor above them, but Fenoglio didn't seem particularly

interested.

"Are those your children?" asked Meggie, pointing up at the ceiling.

"Heaven help us, no. My grandchildren. One of my daughters lives in this village, too. They're

always visiting me and I tell them stories. I tell half the village stories, but I don't feel like writing

them down anymore." He turned to Mo with an inquiring look. "Where is he now?"

"Dustfinger? I can't tell you. He doesn't want to see you."

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