Cornelia Funke - Inkspell

It was difficult for her to turn her eyes away from Farid's face. "He'll never come back," she whispered, and looked at Dustfinger. She didn't have the strength to speak any louder. All her strength was gone, as if Farid had taken it away with him. He had taken everything away with him.

"There's a story." Dustfinger looked at his hands, as if what he was talking about was written there. "A story about the White Women."

"What kind of story?" Meggie didn't want to hear any more stories ever again. This one had broken her heart for all time. Nonetheless, there was something in Dustfinger's voice…

He bent over Farid and wiped some soot from his cold forehead. "Roxane knows it," he said. "She'll tell it to you. Just go to her and… and tell her I've had to go away. Tell her I'm going to find out if the story is true." He spoke with a strange kind of hesitation, as if it were infinitely difficult to find the right words. "And remind her of my promise – that I'll always find a way back to her, wherever I am. Will you tell her that?"

What was he talking about? "Find out?" Meggie's voice was husky with tears. "Find out what exactly?"

"Oh, people say this and that about the White Women. Much of it's just superstition, but there's sure to be some truth in it somewhere. Stories are always like that, aren't they? No doubt Fenoglio could tell me more, but to be honest I don't want to ask him. I'd rather ask them in person."

Dustfinger straightened up. He stood there looking around him, as if he had forgotten where he really was.

The White Women. "They'll be coming soon, won't they?" Meggie asked him anxiously. "Coming for Farid."

But Dustfinger shook his head, and for the first time since Farid's death he smiled, that strangely sad smile that Meggie had never seen on any face but his, and that she had never entirely understood. "No, why should they? They're sure of him already. They come only if you're still clinging to life, if they have to lure you to them with a look or a whispered word. Everything else is superstition. They come while you're still breathing, but very close to death. They come when your heart is beating more and more faintly, when they can smell fear, or blood, as in your father's case. If you die as quickly as Farid you go to them entirely of your own accord."

Meggie caressed Farid's fingers. They were colder than the stone where she was sitting. "Then I don't understand," she whispered. "If they aren't coming at all, how will you ask them anything?"

"I shall summon them," replied Dustfinger. "But you had better not be here when I do it, so will you go to Roxane and tell her what I have said to you?"

She was going to ask more questions, but he put a finger on his lips. "Please, Meggie!" he said. He didn't often call her by her name. "Tell Roxane what I have told you – and say… say I'm sorry. Now, off you go."

Meggie sensed that he was afraid, but she did not ask him what of, because her heart was asking other questions. How could it be true that Farid was dead, and how would it feel to have him dead in her heart forever? She caressed his still face one last time before she got to her feet. When she looked back once more at the entrance to the gallery, Dustfinger was looking down at Farid. And, for the first time since she had known him, his face showed all that he usually hid: affection, love – and pain.

Meggie knew where to look for Roxane, but she lost her way twice in the dark galleries before she finally found her. Roxane was tending the injured women, while the Barn Owl was looking after the men. Many of them had been hurt, and although the fire had saved their lives it had burned many of them badly. Mo was nowhere to be seen, and nor was the Prince; they were probably on guard at the entrance to the mine, but Resa was with Roxane. She was just bandaging an arm that had suffered burns, and Roxane was treating a cut on an old woman's forehead with the same ointment she had once used on Dustfinger's wounds. Its springlike fragrance did not suit this place.

When Meggie came out of the dark passage, Roxane raised her head. Perhaps she had been hoping it was Dustfinger's footsteps that she had heard. Meggie leaned back against the cold wall of the gallery. This is all a dream, she thought, a terrible, terrible dream. She felt dizzy with weeping.

"What's that story?" she asked Roxane. "A story about the White Women… Dustfinger says you're to tell me. And he says he has to go away because he wants to find out if it's true."

"Go away?" Roxane put down the ointment. "What are you talking about?"

Meggie wiped her eyes, but there were no tears left in them. She supposed she had used them all up. Where did so many tears come from? "He says he's going to summon them," she murmured. "And he says you're to remember his promise. That he'll always come back, he'll find a way wherever he is…" The words still made no sense to her when she repeated them. But they obviously meant something to Roxane.

She straightened up, and so did Resa.

"What are you talking about, Meggie?" asked her mother, with concern in her voice. "Where's Dustfinger?"

"With Farid. He's still with Farid." It hurt so much to speak his name. Resa took her in her arms. But Roxane just stood there, staring at the dark gallery from which Meggie had come. Then she suddenly pushed Meggie aside, made her way past her, and disappeared into the darkness. Resa hurried after her, without letting go of Meggie's hand. Roxane was only a little way ahead of them. She trod on the hem of her dress, fell over, picked herself up again, and ran on. Faster and faster. But still she came too late.

Resa almost stumbled into Roxane, for she was standing rooted to the spot at the entrance of the gallery where Farid lay. Roxane's name burned on the wall in fiery letters, and the White Women were still there. They withdrew their pale hands from Dustfinger's breast as if they had torn out his heart. Perhaps Roxane was the last thing he saw. Perhaps he just had time to see Farid move before he himself collapsed without a sound, as the White Women vanished.

Yes, Farid was moving – like someone who has slept too long and too deeply. He sat up, his gaze blurred, with no idea who was suddenly lying there motionless behind him. Even when Roxane made her way past him he did not turn. He stared into space, as if there were pictures in front of him that no one else could see.

Hesitantly, as if he were a stranger, Meggie went to him. She didn't know what to feel. She didn't know what to think.

But Roxane stood beside Dustfinger, her hand pressed firmly to her mouth, as if she had to hold back her pain. Her name was still burning on the wall of the gallery as if it had stood there forever, but she took no notice of the letters of fire. Without a word she sank to her knees and took Dustfinger's head on her lap, as carefully as if she feared to break what was already broken, and she bent over him until her black hair surrounded his face like a veil.

Resa began to weep. But Farid still sat there as if numbed. Only when Meggie was right in front of him did he seem to notice her.

"Meggie?" he murmured, his tongue heavy.

It couldn't be true. He was really back.

Farid. Suddenly, his name did not taste of pain. He put his hand out to her and she took it, quickly, as if she had to hold on tight to prevent him from going away again, so far away. Was Dustfinger in that place now? How warm Farid's face felt again. Her fingers couldn't believe it. She kneeled beside him and put her arms around him, much too tight, felt his heart beating against her, beating strongly.

"Meggie!" He looked as relieved as if he had woken from a bad dream. There was even a smile stealing over his lips. But then Roxane, behind them, began sobbing very quietly, so quietly that you could hardly hear it through her curtain of hair – and Farid turned around.