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but, although he spoke three fairy languages, he understood not a word of what she finally said

in her faint tinkling voice.

"What a pity!" he whispered as she spread her wings and flew, rather unsteadily, up to the

ceiling. "That means I can't ask you if you could make me invisible, or so small that you could

carry me to Capricorn's festivities."

The fairy looked down at him, tinkled something that he couldn't understand, and settled on the

side of the kitchen cupboard.

Dustfinger sat down on the only chair by Basta's kitchen table and looked up at her. "All the

same," he said, "it's good to see someone like you again. If only the fire in this world had more of

a sense of humor, and a troll or a glass man would look out of the trees now and then — well,

perhaps I could get used to the rest of it after all, the noise, the speed, the crowds — and the way

the nights are so much lighter. ..."

He sat there in his worst enemy's kitchen for quite a long time, watching the fairy flying around

the room investigating everything, for fairies are naturally inquisitive, and this one was

obviously no exception. Every now and then she stopped to sip her milk, and he filled the dish a

second time. Once or twice, footsteps approached, but each time they passed by the house. What

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a good thing Basta had no friends. The air that came in through the window was sultry; it made

Dustfinger drowsy. The narrow strip of sky showing above the houses would stay light for many

hours yet — long enough for him to make up his mind whether or not to go to Capricorn's

festivities.

Why should he go? He could get hold of the book later, some time when all the excitement in the

village had died down and everything was back to normal. And what about Resa? What was

going to happen to her? The Shadow would come for her. There was nothing to be done about

that, not by anyone, not even Silvertongue if he was really so crazy as to try. But Silvertongue

didn't know about her, or about his daughter; at least there was no need to worry about Meggie

— not now that she was Capricorn's favorite toy. Capricorn wouldn't let the Shadow hurt her.

No, I won't go, thought Dustfinger, I'll hide here for a while. Tomorrow, there'll be no more

Basta, that's one good thing. And perhaps I will go away from here, go away forever. . . . No. He

knew he wouldn't do that. Not while the book was here.

The fairy had flown over to the window and was peering curiously out at the alley.

"Forget it. Stay here," said Dustfinger. "Please. Believe me, it's no place for you out there."

She looked at him quizzically, then folded her wings and knelt on the windowsill. And there she

stayed, as if she couldn't decide between the hot room and the strange freedom to be found

outside.

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Chapter 53 – The Right Words

This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that

the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape,

should usurp the offices of life.

– Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Fenoglio wrote and wrote, but the number of pages he had hidden under the mattress was no

greater. He kept taking them out, fiddling with them, tearing up one, and adding another. "No,

no, no!" Meggie heard him muttering crossly to himself. "No, that's not it yet."

"It will be dark in a few hours," she said at last, anxiously. "Suppose you don't finish it in time?"

"I have finished!" he snapped, irritated. "I've finished a dozen times already, but I'm not happy

with it." He lowered his voice to a whisper before he went on. "There are so many questions.

Suppose the Shadow turns on you or me or the prisoners once he's killed Capricorn? And is

killing Capricorn really the only solution? What's going to happen to his men afterward? What

do I do with them?"

"What do you think? The Shadow must kill them all!" Meggie whispered back. "How else are we

ever going to get home or rescue my mother?"

Fenoglio did not like this reply. "Good heavens, what a heartless creature you are!" he

whispered. "Kill them all! Haven't you seen how young some of them are?" He shook his head.

"No! I'm not a mass murderer, I'm a writer! I'm sure I can think of some less bloodthirsty

ending." And he began writing again . . . and crossing out words . . . and writing more, while

outside the sun sank lower and lower until its rays were gilding the hilltops.

Every time steps came along the corridor Fenoglio hid what he had been writing under his

mattress, but no one came in to see what the old man kept scribbling on his blank sheets of

paper. For Basta was down in the crypt.

The bored guards on duty outside their door had several visitors that afternoon. Men had

obviously come into the village from Capricorn's outposts to watch the execution. Putting her

ear to the door, Meggie eavesdropped on their conversations. They laughed a. lot, and their

voices sounded excited. They were all looking forward to the night's spectacle. Not one of them

seemed to feel sorry for Basta. Far from it. Knowing Capricorn's former favorite was to die that

night just seemed to add to their fun. Of course they discussed Meggie, too. That little witch, they

called her, that little madam the enchantress, and not all of them seemed to be convinced of her

powers.

As for Basta's executioner, Meggie learned no more than what Fenoglio had already told her and

what she remembered of the passage the Magpie had made her read. It wasn't much, but she

heard the fear in those voices outside the door and the horrified awe that overcame them all at

the mention of his name, which was not a real name at all. Only those who, like Capricorn

himself, had come out of Fenoglio's book had ever seen the Shadow — but they had all obviously

heard about him — and they painted pictures in the darkest tones of how he would deal with

the prisoners. There were evidently several opinions about how he actually killed his victims,

but the suggestions Meggie overheard grew more and more horrible the closer evening came,

until she could bear it no longer. She went to sit by the window with her hands over her ears.

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It was six o'clock — the church clock was just beginning to strike — when Fenoglio suddenly put

down his pen and looked over what he had written with a satisfied expression. "Got it!" he

whispered. "Yes, that's it. That's how it will be. It will turn out splendidly." Impatiently, he

beckoned Meggie over and gave her the paper.

"Read it!" he whispered, glancing nervously at the door. Out in the corridor, Flatnose was just

boasting of the way he had poisoned a farmer's stocks of olive oil.

"Is that all?" Meggie looked incredulously at the single sheet of paper.

"Yes, that's all. No more is needed. As you'll see. The words just have to be the right ones. Go on,

read it!"

Meggie did as he said.

The men outside were laughing, and she found it difficult to concentrate on Fenoglio's words.

Finally, she did it. But she'd no sooner finished the first sentence when the men outside fell

utterly silent. The Magpie's voice echoed down the corridor. "What's all this? A coffee break?"

Fenoglio hastily took the precious paper and put it under his mattress. He was just readjusting

the bedspread when the Magpie opened the door.

"Your supper," she told Meggie, putting a steaming plate down on the table.

"What about me?" inquired Fenoglio in a deliberately cheerful voice. The mattress had slipped

slightly when he hid the paper under it, and he had to lean against his bed to hide it from

Mortola, but luckily she had no eyes for him. Meggie felt sure she thought he was merely a liar,

and very likely it annoyed her that Capricorn did not agree with her.

"Eat it all up!" she ordered Meggie. "And then get changed. Your clothes look dreadful and stiff

with dirt, too." She signaled to the maid who had come with her, a young girl at most only four or

five years older than Meggie herself. The rumors of Meggie's supposed powers of witchcraft had

obviously reached this girl's ears, too. A snow-white dress was draped over her arm, and she

avoided looking at Meggie as she made her way past her to hang it in the closet.

"I don't want that dress!" Meggie spat at the Magpie. "I want to wear this." She took Mo's

sweater off her bed, but Mortola snatched it from her hands.

"Nonsense. Do you want Capricorn to think we've been keeping you in a sack? You'll wear that

dress. Either you put it on yourself or we'll put it on you. I will come for you as soon as darkness

falls. Wash your face and comb your hair. You look like a stray cat."

The maid scurried past Meggie again, looking frightened as if any contact might burn her. The

Magpie impatiently pushed the girl out into the corridor. "Lock the door," she told Flatnose.

"And send your friends away. You're supposed to be on guard."

Flatnose strolled casually toward the door. Meggie saw him make a face at the Magpie behind

her back before he closed it.

She went over to the dress and touched the white material. "White!" she murmured. "I don't like

white things. Death has white hounds. Mo once told me a story about them."

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"Ah yes, the white, red-eyed hounds of Death." Fenoglio came over to her. "Ghosts are white, too,

and the thirst of the ancient gods for blood was quenched only by white sacrificial animals, as if

the gods like the taste of innocence best. Oh no, no!" he added quickly, seeing Meggie's terrified

eyes. "No, believe me, Capricorn certainly wasn't thinking of any such thing when he sent you

that dress. How would he know such stories? White is the color of the beginning, too, and of the

end. And both of us," he added, lowering his voice, "remember, you and I, Meggie, are going to

make sure it is Capricorn's end and not ours." Gently, he led Meggie to the table and made her sit

down. The smell of roast meat rose to her nostrils.

"What do you think it is?" she asked.

"Looks like veal. Why?"

Meggie pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry," she murmured.

Fenoglio looked at her with great sympathy. "You know, Meggie," he said, "I think I should write

a story about you next, you and how you save us all with your voice. It would be a very exciting

story."

"But would it have a happy ending?" Meggie looked out of the window. Only another hour, two

at the most, and it would be dark. Suppose Mo came then? Suppose he made another attempt to

free her? He didn't know what she and Fenoglio were planning. Suppose they shot at him again?

Suppose they really did hit him last time? Meggie put her arms on the table and buried her face

in them.

She felt Fenoglio stroking her hair. "It will be all right, Meggie!" he whispered. "Believe me, my

stories always have happy endings. If I want them to."

"That dress has very tight sleeves!" she whispered. "How will I hide the paper in my sleeve

without the Magpie noticing?"

"I'll distract her attention. Don't worry."

"But later? They'll all see me take the paper out."

"Nonsense, you'll manage." Fenoglio put a hand under her chin. "It will be all right, Meggie!" he

said again, wiping a tear off her cheek with his forefinger. "You're not alone, even if you may feel

so tonight. I'm here, and Dustfinger is somewhere out there. I know him as well as I know

myself, and I can assure you he'll come, if only to see the book and perhaps get it back — and

then there's your father, and that boy who was looking at you in such a lovesick way back in the

square in front of the memorial when I first saw Dustfinger."

"Oh, stop it!" Meggie dug her elbow into his stomach, but she had to laugh, even though her tears

were still blurring everything, the table, her hands, Fenoglio's wrinkled face. She felt as if she

had used up enough tears for a whole lifetime in these last few weeks.

"Why? He's a good-looking lad. I'd put in a good word for him with your father like a shot."

"I said stop it!"

"Only if you'll eat something." Fenoglio pushed the plate back toward her. "And that lady, your

friend, what was her name?"

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"Elinor." Meggie put an olive in her mouth and chewed it until she could feel the stone between

her teeth.

"Exactly. Perhaps she's out there, too, with your father. Good Lord, when I come to think of it

we're almost in the majority."

Meggie almost choked on the olive stone. Fenoglio smiled, pleased with himself. Mo always

raised his eyebrows when he had managed to make her laugh, looking both surprised and

serious as if he had no idea what she was laughing at. Meggie could see his face before her so