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"Please. I only want to talk to you." The old man barred his way, reaching for his arm.

"Well, I don't want to talk toyou." Dustfinger tried to free himself from the bony fingers. They

were surprisingly strong, but Dustfinger had the knife, Basta's clasp knife. He took it out of his

pocket, snapped it open, and held it under the old man's chin. His hand was trembling, he had

never enjoyed threatening anyone with a knife, but the old man let go. And Dustfinger ran.

He ignored whatever Silvertongue was calling after him. He just ran for it, as he had often done

in the past. He could trust his legs even if he didn't yet know where they were taking him. He left

the village and the road behind, dodged under some trees, ran through wild grass, plunged in

among the mustard-yellow bramble bushes, let the silvery foliage of the olive trees hide him. . . .

He had to get away from the houses, away from the paved roads. Wild country had always

protected him. Only when every breath he drew hurt him did he throw himself down into the

long grass behind an abandoned cistern where frogs croaked and the rainwater that had

collected among the gray stones steamed in the sun. He lay there gasping, listening to his own

heartbeat and staring at the sky.

He jumped. "Who's that?"

The boy stood there. Farid had followed him.

"Go away!" shouted Dustfinger.

The boy crouched down among the wildflowers that grew everywhere — blue and yellow and

red splashes of bright color in the grass.

"I don't want you!" snapped Dustfinger.

The boy said nothing, but picked a wild orchid and examined the bloom. It looked like a

bumblebee on the tip of a flower stem. "What a strange flower!" he murmured. "I've never seen

one like that before."

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Dustfinger sat up and leaned against the side of the cistern. "You'll be sorry if you keep running

after me," he said. "I'm going back. You know where to."

Only when he said it did he realize that he had made up his mind — long ago. Yes, he was going

back. Dustfinger the coward was going back into the lion's den. Never mind what Silvertongue

said, nor what his daughter thought — there was only one thing he wanted. He had never

wanted anything else. And if he couldn't have it now, then at least he could hope that one day his

wish would come true.

The boy stayed sitting there.

"Go away, will you? Go back to Silvertongue! He'll look after you."

Farid sat there unmoved, his arms around his knees. "You're going back to that village?"

"Yes, the village where the devils and demons live. Believe me, they'll kill a boy like you and eat

you for breakfast. They'll enjoy their coffee all the more afterward."

Farid stroked his cheeks with the orchid. He made a face as the petals tickled his skin. "Gwin

wants to get out," he said.

He was right. The marten was biting the fabric of the backpack and sticking his muzzle out of it.

Dustfinger undid the straps and freed him. Gwin blinked up at the sun, chattered crossly,

presumably complaining that it was the wrong time of day, and scurried over to the boy. Farid

picked him up, put him on his shoulder, and looked earnestly at Dustfinger. "I've never seen

flowers like this," he repeated. "Or such green hills or such a clever marten. But I know a lot

about the kind of men you mean. They're the same everywhere."

Dustfinger shook his head. "These are particularly bad."

"No, not particularly."

The defiance in Farid's voice made Dustfinger laugh, he himself didn't know why.

"We could go somewhere else," said the boy.

"No, we couldn't."

"Why not? What are you planning to do in that village?"

"Steal something," said Dustfinger.

The boy nodded, as if stealing were the most natural plan in the world, and carefully put the

orchid in his pants pocket. "Will you teach me a little more about fire first? Before we go there."

"Before?" Dustfinger couldn't help smiling. The boy was a clever lad and no doubt he knew there

wouldn't be any after.

"Of course," he said. "I'll teach you everything I know. Before we go there."

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Chapter 27 – A Good Place to Stay

I keep six honest serving men (they taught me all I knew); Their names are What and Why

and When and How and Where and Who."

– Rudyard Kipling, The Elephant's Child

They did not set off to join Elinor after Dustfinger had left them. "Meggie, I know I said we

would," said Mo as they stood in the square in front of the war memorial, feeling rather at a loss.

"But I'd like to leave the journey until tomorrow. As I told you before, there's something else I

have to discuss with Fenoglio." The old man was still standing where he had been when he

spoke to Dustfinger, staring down the road. His grandchildren were pulling at him and talking to

him, but he didn't seem to notice them.

"What exactly do you want to discuss with him?" Mo sat on the steps in front of the memorial

and made Meggie sit down beside him. "Do you see those names?" he asked, pointing up at the

chiseled letters listing people no longer alive.

"There's a family behind every name — a mother or father, brothers and sisters, perhaps a wife.

If one of them were to find out that letters can be brought to life, that someone who's only a

name now could become flesh and blood again, don't you think he or she would do anything,

anything at all, to make it happen?"

Meggie looked at the long list. Someone had painted a heart next to the name at the top, and

there was a bunch of dried flowers on the stone steps in front of the memorial.

"No one can bring back the dead, Meggie," Mo went on. "Perhaps it's true that death is only the

beginning of a new story, but no one has ever read the book in which it's written, and the writer

of that book certainly doesn't live in a little village on the coast playing football with his

grandchildren. Your mother's name isn't on a stone like this but hidden somewhere in a book,

and I have an idea that just might make it possible to alter what happened nine years ago."

"You're going back!"

"No, I'm not. I gave you my word. Have I ever broken it?"

Meggie shook her head. You broke your word to Dustfinger, she thought, but she didn't say so

out loud.

"There you are, then," said Mo. "I want to talk to Fenoglio; that's the only reason why I want to

stay."

Meggie looked at the sea. The sun had broken through the clouds, and all of a sudden the water

was glistening and shining as if someone had poured paint into it.

"It's not far from here," she murmured.

"What isn't?"

"Capricorn's village."

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Mo looked eastward. "Yes, it's odd that he felt drawn here of all places, don't you think? As if he

were looking for somewhere resembling the countryside of his own story."

"Suppose he finds us?"

"Nonsense. Do you know how many villages there are along this coast?"

Meggie shrugged her shoulders. "He found you before even when you were far, far away."

"He found me with Dustfinger's help, and you can be sure Dustfinger isn't going to help him

again." Mo rose and drew Meggie to her feet. "Come on, let's ask Fenoglio where we can stay the

night. He looks like he could use some company."

Fenoglio did not tell them whether Dustfinger looked like he had imagined him. He said very

little as they walked back to his house. But when Mo told him that he and Meggie would like to

stay there another day his face brightened slightly. He even offered them a place to spend the

night: an apartment he sometimes rented out to tourists. Mo gratefully accepted.

He and the old man talked far into the evening, while Fenoglio's grandchildren chased Meggie all

over the nooks and crannies of the house. The two men sat in Fenoglio's study. It was next to the

kitchen, and Meggie kept trying to listen at the closed door, but Pippo and Rico always caught

her in the act and dragged her away to the next flight of stairs before she had heard more than a

few words. Finally, she gave up. She let Paula show her the kittens scampering around with their

mother in the tiny garden behind the house and followed the three children to the house where

they lived with their parents. They didn't stay long, just long enough to persuade their mother to

let them stay at their grandfather's for supper.

Supper was pasta with sage. Pippo and Rico picked the bitter-tasting green bits out of their

sauce with disgusted expressions on their faces, but Meggie and Paula enjoyed the flavor of

leaves. After the meal Mo and Fenoglio drank a whole bottle of red wine between them, and

when the old man finally saw Mo and Meggie to the door he said good night and added, "So

you'll look at my books as we agreed, Mortimer, and I'll get down to work first thing tomorrow."

"What kind of work, Mo?" asked Meggie as they walked along the dimly lit alleys together. Night

had hardly cooled the air at all; a strangely foreign wind blew through the village, hot and sandy,

as if it were carrying the desert itself across the sea.

"I'd rather you didn't ask me that," said Mo. "Let's just act as if we were on holiday for a few

days. This looks like a good place for a holiday, don't you think?"

Meggie answered only with a nod. Mo really knew her very well — he could often tell what she

was thinking before she put it into words — but he sometimes forgot she wasn't five years old

anymore, and these days it took more than a few kind words to distract her from her worries.

Very well, she thought as she silently followed Mo through the sleeping village. If he doesn't

want to tell me what Fenoglio's supposed to do for him I'll ask old turtle face himself. And if he

won't say either, then one of his grandchildren can find out for me! Paula was just the right size

for a spy. It didn't seem all that long ago since Meggie herself had been able to hide unnoticed

under a table.

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Chapter 28 – Going Home

My library was dukedom large enough.

– William Shakespeare, The Tempest

It was almost midnight by the time Elinor finally saw her garden gate beside the road. The lights

down by the banks of the lake stood side by side like a caravan of glowworms, trembling as they

were reflected in the black water. It was good to be home again. Even the wind that blew on

Elinor's face as she got out to open the gate felt familiar. It was all familiar, the scent of the

hedges and the earth and the air, so much cooler and moister than in the south. It didn't taste of

salt anymore either. I might even miss that saltiness, thought Elinor. The sea always filled her

with longing, though for what she was never sure.

The iron gate creaked quietly as she pushed it open, almost as if it were welcoming her home.

But no other voice would greet her. "What a silly notion, Elinor!" she muttered as she got back

into the car. "Your books will welcome you home. That's good enough, surely."

She had been in a strange mood even during the drive. She had taken her time on the way home,

avoiding major roads, and had spent the night in a tiny place in the mountains, the name of

which she had already forgotten. She had enjoyed being alone again, for that, after all, was what

she was used to, yet the silence in her car had suddenly begun to trouble her, and she had gone

into a cafe in a sleepy little town that didn't even have a bookshop, just to hear other human

voices. She hadn't spent much time there, staying only long enough to gulp down a cup of coffee,

because she was annoyed with herself. "What's all this about, Elinor?" she had muttered when

she was back in the car. "Since when did you long for human company? High time you were

home again, before you go right around the bend."

Her house looked so dark and deserted as she drove up to it that it seemed curiously strange to

her. Only the scents of her garden made her feel a little better as she went up the steps to the

front door. The light over the door, which usually came on automatically at night, wasn't

working, and it took Elinor a ridiculous amount of time to get her key into the lock. As she

pushed open the door and stumbled into the pitch-dark hall she quietly cursed the man who

usually kept an eye on the house and garden whenever she went away. She had tried phoning

him three times before she set out, but she supposed he'd gone to see his daughter again. Didn't

anyone realize what treasures this house contained? Of course, if they'd been made of gold . . .

but they consisted only of paper and Printer's ink.

It was very quiet, and for a moment Elinor thought she heard Mortimer's voice as it brought life

into the church with the red walls. She could have listened to him for a hundred years. No, two

hundred. At least. "I must get him to read aloud to me when he arrives," she murmured, taking

the shoes off her tired feet. "There must be some books he can read safely."