Magpie, reaching into the casket yet again. This time she brought out a book. Meggie would have known what book it was even if she hadn’t recognised the coloured jacket. ‘I’ve often kept valuables in this casket,’ continued the Magpie. ‘No one knows about it and its contents apart from Basta and Capricorn. Poor Resa searched high and low for this book – she’s a brave creature – but she didn’t get as far as my casket. As it happens, she likes snakes. I’ve never met anyone who feels less fear of them than Resa, although she’s been bitten now and then, isn’t that so, Basta?’ The Magpie took off her glove and looked scornfully at him. ‘Basta likes to use snakes to scare women who reject his advances. It didn’t work with Resa. How did it go exactly – didn’t she finally put the snake outside your door, Basta?’
Basta did not reply. The snakes were still twisting and turning in his hands. One of them had wound its tail around his arm.
‘Put them back in the casket,’ the Magpie ordered. ‘But be careful not to hurt them.’ Then she returned to her armchair with the book. ‘Sit down!’ she said, pointing to the footstool beside her.
Meggie obeyed. Surreptitiously, she looked around her. Mortola’s room reminded her of a fairy-tale treasure chest filled to the brim. But there was too much of everything – too many golden candlesticks, too many lamps, rugs, pictures, vases, china ornaments, silk flowers, gilded bells.
The Magpie looked at her smugly. In her plain black dress she sat there like a cuckoo that has forced its way into another bird’s nest. ‘A fine room for a domestic servant, don’t you think?’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Capricorn knows how to value me.’
‘But he still makes you live in the cellar!’ replied Meggie. ‘Even though you’re his mother.’ If only words could be swallowed – caught and slipped quickly back between your lips.
The Magpie looked at her with such hatred that Meggie almost felt the woman’s bony fingers on her throat. But Mortola just sat there, her birdlike eyes looking fixedly at Meggie. ‘Who told you that? The old sorcerer?’
Meggie clamped her lips together and looked at Basta. He probably hadn’t heard a word; he was just putting the second snake back in the casket. Did he know Capricorn’s little secret? Before she could wonder about that any more Mortola put the book on her lap.
‘A word about this to anyone here, or indeed anywhere else,’ hissed the Magpie, ‘and I personally shall prepare your next meal. A little extract of monkshood, a few shoots of yew or perhaps a couple of hemlock seeds in the sauce, how do you fancy that? I can assure you you’d find it a hard meal to digest. Now, start reading.’
Meggie stared at the book on her lap. When Capricorn held it up in the church she hadn’t been able to make out the picture on the jacket. Now she had a chance to see it at close quarters. There was a landscape in the background that looked like a slightly different version of the hills surrounding Capricorn’s village. But the foreground showed a heart, a black heart surrounded by red flames.
‘Go on, open it!’ snapped the Magpie.
Meggie obeyed. She opened the book at the page beginning with the N and the horned marten perched on it. How long ago was it since she had stood in Elinor’s library looking at the same page? An eternity, a whole lifetime?
‘Wrong page. Go on,’ the Magpie told her. ‘Find the page with the corner turned down.’
Wordlessly, Meggie obeyed. There was no picture on that page or the one opposite it. Without thinking she smoothed the corner out with her thumbnail. Mo hated to see dog-eared pages.
‘What’s the idea? Do you want to make it difficult for me to find the place again?’ hissed the Magpie. ‘Begin with the second paragraph, but mind you don’t read aloud. I don’t want to find the Shadow here in my room.’
‘How far shall I go? I mean, how far am I to read this evening?’
‘How should I know?’ The Magpie leaned over and rubbed her left leg. ‘How long does it usually take you to read your fairies and tin soldiers and so forth out of their stories?’
Meggie lowered her head. Poor Tinker Bell. ‘I can’t say,’ she murmured. ‘It depends. Sometimes it happens soon, sometimes not until after many pages, or not at all.’
‘Well, read the whole chapter, that ought to be enough! And you can leave out the “not at all” business.’ The Magpie rubbed her other leg. They were both wrapped in bandages that could be seen through the dark stockings she wore. ‘What are you staring at?’ she hissed at Meggie. ‘Can you read me something out of a book to do my legs good? Do you know a story with a cure for old age and death in it, little witch that you are?’
‘No,’ whispered Meggie.
‘Then don’t gawp so stupidly, look at the book. Mind you notice every word. I don’t want to hear you stumble once tonight, no stammering, no mispronunciations, understood? This time Capricorn is to get exactly what he wants. I shall see to that.’
Meggie let her eyes wander over the letters. She wasn’t taking in a word of what she read; she could think of nothing but Mo and the shots fired in the night. But she pretended to be reading, on and on, while Mortola never took her eyes off her. Finally, she raised her head and closed the book. ‘Finished,’ she said.
‘What, already?’ The Magpie looked at her suspiciously.
Meggie did not reply. She glared at Basta. He was leaning on Mortola’s armchair looking bored. ‘I’m not going to read that aloud this evening,’ she said. ‘You shot my father last night. Basta told me. I won’t read a word.’
The Magpie turned to Basta. ‘What was the idea of that?’ she asked angrily. ‘Do you think the child will read better if you break her silly heart? Tell her you missed him and get on with it.’
Basta lowered his head like a boy caught doing wrong by his mother. ‘I did tell her, well … almost,’ he growled. ‘Cockerell’s a terrible shot. Your father didn’t suffer so much as a scratch.’
Meggie closed her eyes with relief. She felt warm and wonderful. Everything was all right, or at least what wasn’t all right soon would be.
Happiness made her bold. ‘There’s something else,’ she said. Why should she be afraid? They needed her. She was the only one who could read their wretched Shadow out of the book for them, no one else could do it – except Mo, and they hadn’t caught him yet. They would never catch him now, ever.
‘What is it?’ The Magpie smoothed her sternly pinned-up hair. What had she looked like when she was Meggie’s age? Had her lips been so mean even then?
‘I shall only read if I can see Dustfinger again. Before he …’ She did not end the sentence.
‘What for?’
Because I want to tell him we’re going to try to save him, and because I think my mother is with him, thought Meggie, but naturally she did not say so out loud. ‘I want to tell him I’m sorry,’ she replied instead. ‘After all, he helped us.’
Mortola’s mouth twisted mockingly. ‘How touching!’ she said.
I only want to see her once, close to, thought Meggie. Perhaps it isn’t her after all. Perhaps …
‘Suppose I say no?’ The Magpie was watching her like a cat playing with a young and inexperienced mouse.
But Meggie had been expecting that question. ‘Then I shall bite my tongue!’ she said. ‘I shall bite it so hard that it swells right up and I won’t be able to read aloud this evening.’
The Magpie leaned back in her chair and laughed. ‘Hear that, Basta? The child is no fool!’ Basta only grunted. But Mortola studied Meggie, almost benevolently. ‘I’ll tell you something: yes, you can have your silly little wish. But about this evening: before you read, I want you to have a good look at my photographs.’
Meggie glanced round.
‘Look at them closely. Do you see all those faces? Every one of those people made an enemy of Capricorn, and none of them was ever heard of again. The houses you see in the photographs are no longer standing either, not one of them, they have all been burnt down. Think of those photos when you’re reading, little witch. Should you stumble
over the words, or get any silly notions about simply holding your tongue, then your face will soon be looking out of one of these pretty gold frames too. But if you do well we’ll let you go back to your father. Why not? Read like an angel tonight, and you’ll see him again! I’ve been told that his voice clothes every word in silk and satin, turns it into flesh and blood. And that’s how you are to read aloud, not uncertainly and stammering like that fool Darius. Do you understand?’
Meggie looked at her. ‘I understand!’ she said quietly, although she knew for certain that the Magpie was lying.
They would never let her go back to Mo. He would have to come and fetch her.
49
Basta’s Pride and Dustfinger’s Cunning
‘Still, I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We’re in one, of course; but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards. And people will say: “Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring!” And they’ll say: “Yes, that’s one of my favourite stories.”’
J.R.R. Tolkien,
‘The Two Towers’
from The Lord of the Rings
Basta was grumbling to himself non-stop as he escorted Meggie over to the church. ‘Bite her tongue, would she? Since when has the old woman fallen for that kind of thing? And who has to take this little madam to the crypt? Basta, of course! What am I supposed to be – the only male maidservant in the place?’
‘Crypt?’ Meggie had thought the prisoners were still in the nets, but she could see no trace of them when she and Basta entered the church, and Basta had impatiently pushed her past the columns.
‘Yes, the crypt,’ he spat. ‘Where we put the dead and those who soon will be. Down here. Get on with it. I’ve got better things to do today than baby-sit Miss Silvertongue.’
The stairs to which he was pointing were steep and led down into darkness. The treads were worn, and so uneven that Meggie stumbled at every other step. Down below it was so dark that at first she didn’t realise the staircase had come to an end, and she was feeling for the next step with her foot when Basta pushed her roughly forward. ‘What’s the idea now?’ she heard him say, with a curse. ‘Why’s the damn lantern out again?’ A match flared, and Basta’s face appeared out of the darkness.
‘Visitor for you, Dustfinger,’ he announced derisively as he lit the lantern. ‘Silvertongue’s little girl wants to say goodbye. Her father brought you into this world and his daughter will make sure you leave it again tonight. I wouldn’t have let her come, but the Magpie’s going soft in her old age. The child actually seems fond of you. It can hardly be your pretty face, can it?’ Basta’s laugh echoed unpleasantly back from the damp walls.
Meggie went up to the grating behind which Dustfinger stood. She looked at him only briefly, and then gazed over his shoulder. Capricorn’s maid was sitting on a stone coffin. The lantern Basta had lit gave only a dim light, but it was enough for Meggie to recognise her face. It was the face from Mo’s photograph, except that the hair surrounding it was darker now, and there was no sign of any smile.
As Meggie came closer to the grating her mother lifted her head, and was now looking at her as if nothing else in the world existed.
‘Mortola let her come here?’ said Dustfinger. ‘That’s hard to believe.’
‘The girl threatened to bite her own tongue.’ Basta was still standing on the stairs, playing with the rabbit’s foot he wore round his neck as a lucky charm.
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry.’ Meggie was speaking to Dustfinger, but as she spoke she looked at her mother, who was still sitting on the stone coffin.
‘What for?’ Dustfinger smiled his strange smile.
‘For what I must do this evening. For reading aloud from the book.’ If only she could have let the two of them know Fenoglio’s plan.
‘Right, now you’ve said your piece!’ barked Basta impatiently. ‘Come on, the air down here could make your voice hoarse.’
But Meggie did not turn. She clung to the bars of the grating as firmly as she could. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I want to stay a bit longer.’ Perhaps she could think of some way to tell them, some apparently innocent remark. ‘I read something else out of a story,’ she told Dustfinger. ‘A tin soldier.’
‘Did you, though?’ Dustfinger was smiling again. It was odd, but this time his smile seemed to her neither mysterious nor supercilious. ‘Well, nothing can go wrong this evening, then, can it?’
He was looking at her thoughtfully, and Meggie tried to tell him with her eyes: We’re going to rescue you. It won’t work out the way Capricorn expects, believe me! Dustfinger was still looking at her, trying to understand. He raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and then turned to Basta.
‘And how’s that fairy, Basta?’ he asked. ‘Still alive, is she, or has your company done for her?’
Meggie saw her mother get up and come towards her, walking tentatively, as if she were treading on broken glass.
‘She’s still alive,’ said Basta sullenly. ‘Tinkling all the time. I can’t get a wink of sleep. If she carries on like that I’m going to tell Flatnose to wring her neck, the way he does the pigeons when they poo on his car.’ Meggie saw her mother take a piece of paper from the pocket of her dress and surreptitiously press it into Dustfinger’s hand.
‘That would mean at least ten years’ bad luck for you both,’ said Dustfinger. ‘Take my word for it – I know about fairies. Oh, watch out, what’s that in front of you?’
Basta leaped back as if something had bitten his toes. Quick as a flash, Dustfinger’s hand came through the grating and gave Meggie the note.
‘Dammit, there’s nothing there!’ swore Basta. ‘Don’t try that again, you hear me?’ He turned just as Meggie’s fingers were closing round the paper. ‘A note, eh? Well, well!’
Meggie tried in vain to keep her hand closed, but it was easy enough for Basta to prise her fingers apart. Then he stared at her mother’s tiny writing.
‘Read it, go on!’ he growled, holding the note in front of her eyes.
Meggie shook her head.
‘Read it!’ Basta’s voice was dangerously low. ‘Or do you want me to carve a pretty pattern on your face like your friend’s here?’
‘Go on, read it, Meggie,’ said Dustfinger. ‘He knows I like a good drop of wine anyway.’
‘Wine?’ Basta laughed. ‘You wanted the child to get you some wine? How did you think she’d do that?’
Meggie stared at the real note. She concentrated on every word until she knew it by heart.
Nine years are a long time. I celebrated all your birthdays. You’re even lovelier than I imagined you.
She heard Basta laughing.
‘Just like you, Dustfinger!’ he said. ‘You think you could drown your fears in drink, but a whole cask of wine wouldn’t be enough for that.’
Dustfinger shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was worth a try.’
Perhaps he looked a little too pleased when he said that, for Basta frowned and looked thoughtfully at his scarred face. ‘On the other hand,’ he said slowly, ‘you always were a crafty dog. And there are rather a lot of letters there just for a bottle of wine. What about it, sweetheart?’ He held the note in front of Meggie again. ‘Are you going to read it to me now, or shall I show it to the Magpie?’
Meggie snatched the note from him so fast that she had crumpled it behind her back while Basta was still wondering where it had gone.
‘Give it here, you little brat!’ he hissed at her. ‘Give me that note or I’ll cut off your fingers.’
But Meggie retreated from him until her back was up against the grating. ‘No!’ she said, clinging to the bars with one hand and pushing the note through them with the other. Dustfinger caught on at once. She felt him taking the paper from her fingers.
Basta hit her in the face so hard that her head struck the grating. Immediately, a hand stroked her hair, and when she looked round, dazed, she was gazing into her
mother’s face. He’ll notice any moment, she thought, he’ll understand it all, but Basta had eyes only for Dustfinger, who was waving the note back and forth behind the grating as if he were brandishing a worm in front of a hungry bird’s beak.
‘Well, how about it?’ enquired Dustfinger, taking a step back. ‘Do you dare come in here with me, or would you rather go on hitting little girls?’
Basta stood there motionless, like a child whose ears have suddenly and unexpectedly been boxed. Then he seized Meggie’s arm and dragged her towards him. She felt something cold on her throat. She didn’t have to see it to know what it was. Her mother screamed and pulled at Dustfinger’s hand, but he only held the note higher in the air. ‘I knew it!’ he said. ‘What a coward you are, Basta! You’d rather put a knife to a child’s throat than venture in here. Of course if Flatnose were here to back you up, too, with his broad back and his great fat fists – but he isn’t. Come along, you’re the one with the knife! I’ve got nothing but my hands, and you know how I hate to misuse them for fighting.’
Meggie felt Basta’s grip relax. The blade was no longer pressing into her skin. She swallowed, and put a hand to her throat. She almost expected to feel warm blood, but there was none. Basta pushed her away so hard that she stumbled and fell on the damp, cold floor. Then he put his hand into his trouser pocket and brought out a bunch of keys. He was panting with rage like a man who had run too far and too fast. Fingers trembling, he put a key into the lock of the cell. Dustfinger watched him, his face impassive. He gestured to Meggie’s mother to step back from the grating, and retreated himself, nimble as a dancer. You couldn’t tell from his scarred face whether he was afraid or not, but the scars looked darker than usual.
‘What’s that for?’ he said, when Basta came into the cell and held out his knife. ‘You might as well put it away. If you kill me you’ll spoil Capricorn’s fun. He won’t forgive you for that in a hurry.’
Yes, he was afraid. Meggie could hear it in his voice. The words were spilling out of his mouth a little too fast.
‘Who said anything about killing?’ growled Basta as he closed the cell door behind him.
Dustfinger retreated as far as the stone coffin. ‘Ah, you were thinking of adding a few more decorations to my face?’ He was almost whispering. There was something else in his voice now – hatred, scorn, rage. ‘Don’t expect it to be so easy this time,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve learned a few useful tricks since then.’
‘Have you indeed?’ Basta was standing barely a pace away from him. ‘And what may they be? Your friend fire isn’t here to help you. You don’t even have that stinking marten.’
‘It was words I had in mind.’ Dustfinger placed a hand on the coffin. ‘You see, the fairies have taught me how to lay a curse on someone. They were sorry for my cut face, and they knew how bad I am at fighting. So …
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