Cornelia Funke - Inkheart

Gwin was greedily nibbling the bread Fenoglio had given him. Meggie folded up the endpaper and tied it to his collar. "Take care!" she whispered to Gwin, and then threw the rest of the bread down into Capricorn's yard. The marten scurried down the wall of the house as if it were the easiest thing in the world. One of the maids screamed as he scampered between her legs and called out to the others. She was probably alarmed for Capricorn's chickens, but Gwin had already disappeared over the wall.

"Good. Excellent. So your father's here, " Fenoglio whispered to Meggie, standing beside her by the open window. "Somewhere out there. Very good indeed. And you'll get the tin soldier back. Who was it who said that all's for the best in this best of all possible worlds?" He rubbed the tip of his nose and blinked out at the dazzling sunlight. "So the next thing to do, " he murmured, "is to play on Basta's superstitions. What a good thing I gave him that little weakness. It was a clever move."

Meggie had no idea what he was talking about, but that didn't matter to her. She had only one thought in her head: Mo was here.

Dustfinger had expected Capricorn to leave him and Resa dangling in those dreadful nets until their execution, but they spent only a single if very long night there. In the morning, as soon as the sun cast its bright light on the red walls inside the church, Basta had them brought down. For a few horrible moments Dustfinger thought Capricorn had decided instead to put an end to them in some quick and inconspicuous way, and when he felt solid ground under his feet again he didn't know which made him weaker at the knees – that fear or his night in the net. Whichever it was, he could hardly stand upright.

Basta put his mind to rest for the time being, although that was certainly not his intention. "Personally, I'd have liked to leave you dangling up there a while longer, " he said as his men dragged Dustfinger out of the net. "But for some reason or other Capricorn's decided to lock the two of you in the crypt for what's left of your miserable lives. "

Dustfinger did his best to hide his relief. So death was still a little way off. "I expect it bothers Capricorn to have an audience when he's discussing his filthy plans with the rest of you, " he said. "Or perhaps he just wants us to be able to walk to our execution on our own two legs." One more night in that net and Dustfinger wouldn't even have known he still had legs. His bones ached so much after that first night that he was moving like an old man as Basta took him and Resa down to the crypt. Resa stumbled once or twice on the stairs and seemed to be feeling even worse than he was, but she made not a sound, and when Basta took her arm after she had slipped on one step she shook herself free, giving him such an icy look that he let her go on by herself.

The crypt below the church was a damp, cold place even on days like this, when the sun was practically melting the tiles on the houses outside. It smelled of mold and mouse drop pings and other things Dustfinger didn't want to think about. Soon after arriving in the deserted village Capricorn had had gratings fitted over the narrow niches where long-dead priests slept in their stone tombs. "What could be more fitting than to make the condemned sleep on coffins?" he had said at the time, with a laugh. He had always had his own peculiar sense of humor.

Impatiently, Basta pushed them down the last few steps. He was in a hurry to get back to the light of day, away from the dead and their ghosts. His hand shook as he hung his lantern on a hook and opened the grating over the first cell. There was no electric light down here, no heating either, or any other comforts, only the quiet tombs and the mice scurrying over the cracked flagstones of the floor.

"Oh, aren't you going to give us the pleasure of your company a little longer?" asked Dustfinger as Basta pushed them into the cell. They had to duck. They couldn't stand upright under the old vaults here. "We could tell ghost stories. I know some nice new ones."

Basta growled like a dog. "We won't be needing any coffin for you, Dirtyfingers!" he said as he closed the grating again.

"No, indeed! An urn perhaps, a jam jar, but no coffin. " Dustfinger took a step back from the bars so as to be out of reach of Basta's knife. "I see you have a new amulet, " he called. Basta had almost reached the steps. "Another rabbit's foot, is it? Didn't I tell you they attract White Ladies? You could see the White Ladies in our old world. You don't see them here, which isn't very practical, but of course they're still around with their whispering and their icy fingers."

Basta was standing at the foot of the steps with his fists clenched, his back still turned. Dustfinger was always surprised to find how easily you could scare the man with a few words. "Remember how they come for their victims?" he went on softly. "They whisper your name, 'Bastaaa!' and next thing you know you're freezing cold, and then -"

"They'll soon be whispering your name, Dirtyfingers!" Basta interrupted, his voice shaking. "Yours and yours alone. " And he hurried up the steps as if the ghosts of the White Ladies were already after him.

The sound of his footsteps died away, and Dustfinger was alone – with the silence, with death, and with Resa. They were obviously the only prisoners. Now and then Capricorn had some poor fellow locked in the crypt just to give him a good fright, but most of those who came here and wrote their names on the tombs disappeared some dark night and were never seen again.

Their own departure from this world was going to be rather more spectacular.

My last performance, in a way, thought Dustfinger. Perhaps it will turn out that all this was only a bad dream, and I just had to die to get home again? A nice idea, if only he could have believed in it.

Resa had seated herself on a sarcophagus. It was a plain stone coffin, with a cracked lid, and the name that was once on it could no longer be deciphered. It didn't seem to frighten Resa to be so near the dead. Dustfinger felt differently. He was not afraid of ghosts and White Ladies, like Basta. If a White Lady had appeared he would have passed the time of day with her. No – he was afraid of death. He thought he heard death itself breathing down here, breathing so deeply that no air was left for anyone else. His chest felt as if a huge and ugly animal were sitting on it. Perhaps it hadn't been so bad up there in the net after all. At least they'd had air to breathe.

He sensed Resa watching him. She beckoned him over and patted the lid of the coffin. Hesitantly, he sat down beside her. She put her hand into the pocket of her dress, brought out a candle, and held it up to him with an inquiring look. Dustfinger had to smile. Yes, of course he had matches on him. It was child's play to conceal something as small as a few matches from Basta and the other idiots.

Resa fixed the flickering candle to the coffin with a little of its own wax. She loved candles – colored candles and stones. She always had both in her pockets. But perhaps today she had lit the candle just for him, because she knew how he loved fire.