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Darius. As you can see, Farid doesn't limp, his face probably always looked the way it does now,

and he still has his voice, too — even if you might not think so at the moment."

Farid cast him an angry glance.

"What does Silvertongue look like? Well, I can at least tell you that Basta hasn't decorated his

face yet."

A shutter creaked above them. Dustfinger pressed close to the grating. Only the wind, he

thought, nothing but the wind. Farid was staring at him, eyes wide with fear. No doubt the

creaking sounded to him like a demon, but the figure who leaned out of the window above them

was a creature of flesh and blood: Mortola, or the Magpie as she was secretly nicknamed. She

was in charge of all the maids, and nothing was safe from the Magpie's eyes and ears, not even

the secrets the women whispered to each other in their bedrooms by night. Even Capricorn's

strongboxes had better accommodations than his maidservants. They all slept in his house, four

to a room, crammed in like sardines (except for those who had struck up a relationship with one

of his men and moved to another house).

The Magpie leaned over the windowsill and breathed in the cool night air. She stayed there for

what seemed to be endless time, so long that Dustfinger could happily have wrung her neck, but

finally she appeared to have filled every inch of her body with fresh air and closed the window.

"I must go, but I'll be back tomorrow evening. Maybe you'll have found out something about the

book by then." Dustfinger squeezed Resa's hand. Her fingers were rough from laundry work and

cleaning. "I know I've said it before, but all the same — be careful, and keep away from Basta,"

Resa shrugged her shoulders. How else could she respond to such unnecessary advice? Almost

all the women in the village kept away from Basta, but he didn't keep away from them.

Dustfinger waited outside the grating until Resa was back in her room. She signaled to him

through the window with a candle.

The guard in the parking lot still had his headphones on. Deep in his own thoughts, he was

dancing among the cars, shotgun in his outstretched arms as if he were dancing with a girl. By

the time he finally looked their way, the night had already swallowed up Dustfinger and Farid.

They met no one on the way back to their hiding place, only a fox who slunk away with hunger

in his eyes. Gwin was eating a bird inside the walls of the burnt-out cottage. Its feathers were

shadows in the darkness.

"Has she always been mute?" asked the boy as Dustfinger lay down under the trees to sleep.

"As long as I've known her," replied Dustfinger, turning his back to the boy. Farid lay down

beside him. He had made this his habit from the first, and however often Dustfinger moved away

the boy was always close beside him when he woke up.

"The photograph in your backpack," he said. "It is her."

"So?"

The boy did not reply.

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"If you've taken a fancy to her," Dustfinger mocked him, "forget it. She's one of Capricorn's

favorite maids. She's even allowed to take him his breakfast and help him get dressed."

"How long has she been with him?"

"Five years," said Dustfinger. "And in all that time Capricorn has never once let her leave the

village. She can't even go out of the house very often. She ran away twice, but she never got far.

One of those times a snake bit her. She never told me how Capricorn punished her, but I know

she never tried to run away again."

There was a rustling behind them. Farid jumped, but it was only Gwin. The marten was licking

his muzzle as he leaped and landed on the boy's stomach. Laughing, Farid plucked a feather out

of his fur. Gwin snuffled busily around the boy's chin and nose, as if he had missed him, then he

disappeared into the night again.

"He really is a nice marten!" whispered Farid.

"No, he's not," said Dustfinger, pulling his thin blanket up to his chin. "He probably likes you

because you smell like a girl."

Farid's only answer was a long silence.

"She looks like her," he said at last, just as Dustfinger was dropping off to sleep. "Silvertongue's

daughter, I mean. She has the same mouth and the same eyes, and she laughs in the same way."

"Nonsense!" said Dustfinger. "There's not the slightest resemblance. They both have blue eyes,

that's all. It's not unusual here. Hurry up and go to sleep."

The boy obeyed. He wrapped himself in the sweater that Dustfinger had given him and turned

his back to his companion. Soon he was breathing as peacefully as a baby. But Dustfinger lay

awake all night, staring at the stars.

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Chapter 34 – Capricorn’s Secrets

"If I were to be made a knight," said the Wart, staring dreamily into the fire, "I should...

pray to God to let me encounter all the evil in the world in my own person, so that if I

conquered there would be none left, and, if I were defeated, I would be the one to suffer

for it."

"That would be extremely presumptuous of you," said Merlin, "and you would be

conquered, and you would suffer for it."

– T. H. White, The Sword in the Stone

Capricorn received Meggie and Fenoglio in the church. About a dozen of his men were with him.

He was sitting in the new black leather armchair they had installed under Mortola's supervision,

and this time, for once, his suit was not red but pale yellow, like the morning daylight filtering in

through the windows. He had them brought to him early, while the mist still hung above the

hills, with the sun swimming in it like a ball floating in murky water.

"By all the letters of the alphabet!" whispered Fenoglio as he and Meggie walked down the nave

of the church with Basta close behind them. "He really does look exactly the way I imagined him.

'Colorless as a glass of milk.' I think that's how I put it."

He began walking faster, as if he couldn't wait to see his creation at close quarters. Meggie could

hardly keep up with him, and Basta held him back before he had reached the steps. "Here, what's

the idea?" he hissed. "Not so fast — and bow, understand?"

Fenoglio merely glanced scornfully at him and remained perfectly upright. Basta raised his hand,

but when Capricorn almost imperceptibly shook his head he lowered it again like a rebuked

child. Mortola was standing beside Capricorn's chair, her arms folded like wings behind her

back.

"You know, Basta, I still wonder what you were thinking of not to bring her father, too!" said

Capricorn, letting his gaze wander from Meggie to Fenoglio's turtlelike face.

"He wasn't there. I told you." Basta sounded injured. "Was I supposed to sit around waiting for

him like a toad beside a pond? He'll soon be here of his own accord! We all know how besotted

he is with his daughter. I'll bet my knife he'll be here by tomorrow at the latest!"

"Your knife? But you've already mislaid your knife once recently." The mockery in Mortola's

voice made Basta grind his teeth.

"You're slipping, Basta!" remarked Capricorn. "Your hot temper clouds your judgment. But let's

move on to this other souvenir of yours."

Fenoglio had never taken his eyes off Capricorn. He was looking at him like a painter seeing one

of his pictures again after many long years, and judging by the expression on his face what he

saw pleased him. Meggie couldn't see a trace of fear in his eyes, just incredulous curiosity and

satisfaction — with himself. She also saw that Capricorn did not care for that expression at all.

He wasn't used to being inspected as fearlessly as this old man was scrutinizing him now, not

even by his men.

"Basta has told me some strange things about you, Signer . . . ?"

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"Fenoglio."

Meggie was watching Capricorn's face. Had he ever read the name on the cover of Inkheart just

below the title itself?

"Even his voice sounds the way I imagined!" Fenoglio whispered to her. She thought he was

captivated, like a child looking at a caged lion — except that Capricorn wasn't in a cage. At a

signal from him Basta jammed his elbow into the old man's back so roughly that Fenoglio was

left gasping for air.

"I don't like whispering in my presence," Capricorn said softly, while Fenoglio was still

struggling to get his breath back. "As I said, Basta has told me a strange story — he says you

claimed to be the man who wrote a certain book — what was its name again?"

"Inkheart." Fenoglio rubbed his aching back. "Its title is Inkheart because it's about a man whose

wicked heart is as black as ink, filled with darkness and evil. I still like the title."

Capricorn raised his eyebrows — and smiled. "And how am I supposed to take that? As a

compliment, maybe? After all, it's my story you're talking about."

"No, no, it's mine. You just appear in it."

Meggie saw Basta look inquiringly at Capricorn, but he shook his head again very slightly, and

Fenoglio's back was spared for the time being.

"How interesting. So you're sticking to your lies." Capricorn uncrossed his legs and rose from his

chair. With slow strides, he came down the steps.

Fenoglio smiled conspiratorially at Meggie.

"What are you grinning for?" Capricorn's voice was as sharp as Basta's knife now. He stopped

right in front of Fenoglio.

"Oh, I was only thinking that vanity is one of the qualities I gave you, vanity and" — Fenoglio

paused for effect before continuing — "and a few other weaknesses that I expect you'd rather I

didn't mention in front of your henchmen."

Capricorn examined him in silence, a silence that seemed to last an eternity. Then he smiled. It

was a faint, thin smile, little more than a lift at the corners of his mouth, while his eyes scanned

the church as if he had entirely forgotten Fenoglio. "You're a shameless old man," he said. "And a

liar in the bargain. But if you hope to impress me with your barefaced lying and boasting the

way you've impressed Basta, I must disappoint you. Your claims are ridiculous, just as you are,

and it was more than stupid of Basta to bring you here because now we have to get rid of you,

somehow."

Basta turned pale. He hurried over to Capricorn, head lowered in submission. "But suppose he

isn't lying?" Meggie heard him whisper to Capricorn. "They both say we will all die if we touch

the old man."

Capricorn gave him a look of such contempt that Basta flinched backward as if he had been

struck.

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Fenoglio, however, looked as if he were enjoying himself hugely. It seemed to Meggie that he

was watching the whole scene as if it were a play performed especially for him. "Poor Basta!" he

said to Capricorn. "You're doing him a great injustice again, for he's right. Suppose I'm not lying?

Suppose I really did invent you both — you and Basta? Will you simply dissolve into thin air if

you do anything to me? It seems very likely."

Capricorn laughed, but Meggie sensed he was thinking over what Fenoglio had said, and it made

him uneasy — even if he was taking great pains to hide his concern under a mask of

indifference.

"I can prove I am what I say I am!" said Fenoglio, so quietly that apart from Capricorn only Basta

could hear his words. "Shall I do it here, in front of your men and those women? Shall I tell them

about your parents?"

All was quiet in the church now. No one moved, neither Basta nor the other men waiting at the

foot of the steps. Even the women cleaning the floor under the tables straightened up to look at

Capricorn and the strange old man. Mortola was standing beside his chair, her chin jutting out as

if that would help her to hear what they were whispering about.

Capricorn inspected his cufflinks in silence. They were like drops of blood on his pale shirt.

Then, at last, he turned his colorless eyes to Fenoglio's face again.

"Say what you like, old man! But if you value your life say it so that only I can hear." He spoke

softly, but Meggie heard the fury in his voice, suppressed with difficulty but lurking behind every

word. She had never felt more afraid of him.

Capricorn signed to Basta, who reluctantly took a few steps backward.

"I suppose the child can hear what I have to say?" asked Fenoglio, putting his hand on Meggie's

shoulder. "Or are you afraid of her, too?"

Capricorn did not even look at Meggie. He had eyes only for the old man who had invented him.

"Well, come on, let's hear you, even if you have nothing to say! You're not the first person to try

saving his skin in this church with a few lies, but if you hedge your bets any longer I'll tell Basta

to wrap a pretty little viper around your neck. I always keep a few around the place for such

occasions."

Even this threat didn't particularly impress Fenoglio. "Very well," he said, looking all around him

as if sorry not to have a larger audience, "where shall I begin? First, something basic: A