Cornelia Funke - Inkspell

"F for Fenoglio, F for fantasy, F for fabulous," he announced. "There we are."

"B for breakfast would sound better just now," said Rosenquartz, but Fenoglio ignored this remark.

"What did you think of the song for the prince?" he asked Meggie.

"I… er… I couldn't read it all because you two were quarreling," she said evasively. She didn't want to make Fenoglio even gloomier by saying that the lines struck her as familiar. "Why does the Laughing Prince want such a sad poem?" she asked instead.

"Because his son is dead," replied Fenoglio. "One sad song after another, that's all he wants to hear since Cosimo's death. I'm tired of it!" Sighing, he put the parchment back on his desk and went over to the chest standing under the window.

"Cosimo? Cosimo the Fair is dead?" Meggie couldn't conceal her disappointment. Resa had told her so much about the Laughing Prince's son: Everyone who saw him loved him, even the Adderhead feared him, his peasants brought their sick children to him because they believed anyone as beautiful as an angel could cure all sicknesses, too…

Fenoglio sighed. "Yes, it's terrible. And a bitter lesson. This story isn't my story anymore! It's developed a will of its own."

"Oh no, here we go again!" Rosenquartz groaned. "His story! I'll never understand all this talk. Maybe you really ought to go and see one of those physicians who cure sick minds."

"My dear Rosenquartz," Fenoglio replied, "all this talk, as you call it, is above your transparent little head. But believe me, Meggie knows just what I'm talking about!" He opened the chest, looking cross, and took out a long, dark blue robe. "I ought to get a new one made," he muttered. "Yes, I definitely ought to. This is no robe for a man whose words are sung up and down the land, a man commissioned by a prince to put his grief for his son into words! Just look at the sleeves! Holes everywhere. In spite of Minerva's sprigs of lavender, the moths have been at it."

"It's good enough for a poor poet," remarked the glass man in matter-of-fact tones.

Fenoglio put the robe back in the chest and let the lid fall into place with a dull thud. "One of these days," he said, "I am going to throw something really hard at you!"

This threat did not seem to bother Rosenquartz unduly. The two went on wrangling about this and that; it seemed to be a kind of game they played, and they had obviously forgotten Meggie’s presence entirely. She went to the window, pushed aside the fabric over it, and looked out. It was going to be a sunny day, although mist still lingered above the hills surrounding the city. Which was the hill where the house of the minstrel woman stood, the place where Farid hoped to find Dustfinger? She had forgotten. Would he come back if he actually found the fire-eater, or would he just go off with him, like last time, forgetting that she was here, too? Meggie didn't even try to work out just how that idea made her feel. There was enough turmoil in her heart already, so much turmoil that she'd have liked to ask Fenoglio for a mirror, just to see herself for a moment – her own familiar face amid all the strangeness surrounding her, all the strange feelings in her heart. But instead she let her gaze wander over the misty hills.

How far did Fenoglio's world go? Just as far as he had described it? "Interesting!" he had whispered, back when Basta had dragged the two of them off to Capricorn's village. "Do you know, this place is very like one of the settings I thought up for Inkheart ?" It must have been Ombra he meant. The hills around Ombra really did look like those over which Meggie had escaped with Mo and Elinor when Dustfinger set them free from Capricorn's dungeons, except that these seemed even greener, if that was possible, and more enchanted. As if every leaf suggested that fairies and fire-elves lived under the trees. And the houses and streets you could see from Fenoglio's room might have been in Capricorn's village, if they hadn't been so much noisier and more colorful.

"Just look at the crowds – they all want to go up to the castle today," said Fenoglio behind her. "Traveling peddlers, peasants, craftsmen, rich merchants, beggars, they'll all be going there to celebrate the birthday, to earn or spend a few coins, to enjoy themselves, and most of all to stare at the grand folk."

Meggie looked at the castle walls. They rose above the russet rooftops almost menacingly. Black banners on the towers flapped in the wind.

"How long has Cosimo been dead?"

"Hardly a year yet. I'd just moved into this room. As you can imagine, your voice took me straight to where it plucked the Shadow out of the story: the middle of Capricorn's fortress. Fortunately, all was hopeless confusion there because the monstrous Shadow had disappeared, and none of the fire-raisers noticed an old man suddenly standing among them looking foolish. I spent a couple of dreadful days in the forest, and unfortunately I didn't, like you, have a clever companion who could use a knife, catch rabbits, and kindle fire with a couple of dry twigs. But the Black Prince himself finally picked me up – imagine how I stared when he was suddenly there in front of me. I didn't think I knew any of the men who were with him, but I'll admit that I could never remember the minor characters in my stories very clearly – only vaguely, if at all.

"Well, be that as it may, one of them took me to Ombra, ragged and destitute as I was. But luckily I had a ring that I could sell. A goldsmith gave me enough for it to allow me to rent this room from Minerva, and all seemed to be going well. Very well indeed, in fact. I thought up stories, and stories about stories, better than any I'd made up for a long time. The words came pouring out of me, but when I'd only just made my name with the first songs I wrote for the Laughing Prince, when the strolling players had just begun to find that they liked my verses, Firefox goes and burns down a few farms by the river – and Cosimo the Fair sets out to put an end to Firefox and his gang once and for all. Good, I thought, why not? How was I to guess that he'd get himself killed? I had such plans for him! He was to be a truly great prince, a blessing to his subjects, and my story was going to give them a happy ending when he freed this world from the Adderhead. But instead he gets himself killed by a band of fire-raisers in the Wayless Wood!"

Fenoglio sighed.

"At first his father wouldn't believe he was dead. For Cosimo's face was badly burned, like those of all the other dead who were brought back. The fire had done its work, but when months passed, and still he didn't return…" Fenoglio sighed again, and once more looked in the chest where the moth-eaten robe lay. He handed Meggie two long, pale blue woolen stockings, a couple of leather straps, and a much-washed, dark blue dress. "I'm afraid this will be too big for you – it belongs to Minerva's second daughter, and she's the same size as her mother," he said, "but what you're wearing now urgently needs a wash. You can keep the stockings up with those garters – not very comfortable, but you'll get used to it. Good Lord, you really have grown, Meggie," he said, turning his back to her as she changed her clothes. "Rosenquartz! You turn around, too!"

It was true that the dress didn't fit particularly well, and Meggie suddenly felt almost glad that Fenoglio had no mirror. At home she had been studying her reflection quite often recently. It was odd to watch your own body changing, as if you were a butterfly coming out of its chrysalis.

"Ready?" asked Fenoglio, turning around. "Ah well, that'll do, although such a pretty girl really deserves a prettier dress." He looked down at himself and sighed. "I think I'd better stay as I am; at least this robe doesn't have any holes in it. And what does it matter? The castle will be swarming with entertainers and fine folk today, so no one will take any notice of the two of us."