only words out of his own story? No, I didn’t. Perhaps that rule applies to people like this man Orpheus, people who venture to mess about with other writers’ stories, but surely not for an author setting out to change his own!’
Meggie hoped he was right.
Fenoglio had crossed out a good deal, but his handwriting had indeed become more legible. Meggie looked along the lines. Yes, this time they were Fenoglio’s own words, not stolen from any other writer …
‘Good, isn’t it?’ He dipped a piece of bread in the soup that Minerva had brought up for them hours ago, and looked expectantly at Meggie. Of course the soup was cold. Neither of them could even have thought of eating until now, and Rosenquartz was the only one who had drunk some of the soup. It had made his whole body change colour, until Fenoglio firmly took his tiny spoon away from him and asked if he wanted to kill himself.
‘Leave that alone, Rosenquartz!’ he now added sternly, as the glass man reached a transparent finger out to his dish again. ‘You’ve had quite enough! You know you can’t digest human food. Do you want me to have to take you back to that physician who almost broke your nose off last time?’
‘Eating sand all the time is so boring!’ complained the glass man, withdrawing his finger with an injured air. ‘And the sand you bring me isn’t particularly tasty either.’
‘You ungrateful creature!’ thundered Fenoglio. ‘When I go down to the river for it specially! And last time the river-nymphs thought it would be fun to pull me in. I nearly drowned, all because of you.’
The glass man seemed unimpressed. Still looking injured, he sat down beside the jug full of quills, closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep.
‘Two of them have already died on me that way!’ Fenoglio whispered to Meggie. ‘They just can’t resist our food. Stupid creatures.’
But Meggie was only half listening. She sat down on the bed with the parchment and read through it all again, word by word. Rain came in through the window, as if to remind her of another night – the night when she first heard of Fenoglio’s book, and saw Dustfinger standing outside in the rain. Dustfinger had looked happy in the castle courtyard. Fenoglio was happy too, and Farid, and Minerva and her children. And it must stay that way. I’ll read this for all of them, thought Meggie. For the strolling players, so that the Adderhead won’t hang them just for singing a song, for the peasants in the market place whose vegetables were trampled by those horses. What about Her Ugliness? Would it make Violante happy to have a husband again? Would she notice that this was a different Cosimo? But the words would come too late for the Prince of Sighs. He would never hear of his son’s return.
‘Well, say something!’ Fenoglio’s voice sounded unsure of itself. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, I do. It’s lovely.’
Relief spread over his face. ‘Then what are you waiting for?’
‘About the mark on her face – oh, I don’t know – it sounds like magic, like an inkspell.’
‘Oh, come on. I think it’s romantic, and that never hurts.’
‘If you say so. It’s your story.’ Meggie shrugged her shoulders. ‘But there’s one more thing. Who’s going to disappear when he arrives?’
Fenoglio went pale. ‘Heavens, I’d entirely forgotten about that. Rosenquartz, go and hide in your nest!’ he told the glass man. ‘Luckily the fairies are out.’
‘That’s no use,’ said Meggie quietly, as the glass man made his way up to the empty fairies’ nest, where he used to sulk and sometimes sleep. ‘Hiding is no use at all.’
The sound of a horse’s hooves rose to them from the street outside. One of the men-at-arms was riding by. Obviously the Piper wasn’t going to let the people of Ombra forget who their new master truly was, even in their sleep.
‘Well, there’s a sign for us!’ Fenoglio whispered to Meggie. ‘If that man disappears, he’s no loss. Anyway, how do you know anyone will disappear at all? I think it happens only if you read someone here who leaves a gap to be filled in his own story. But our new Cosimo has no story of his own! He was born here, today, from these words!’
Well, he might be right.
The clatter of the hooves mingled with the sound of Meggie’s voice. ‘It was a quiet night in Ombra, very quiet,’ she read. ‘The wounds inflicted by the men-at-arms had not yet healed, and many never would.’ And suddenly she forgot about the fear she had felt in the morning, and again thought only of her anger. She had felt so angry with men who encased themselves in armour and kicked women and children in the back with their iron shoes. The anger made her voice strong and full, ready to awaken new life. ‘Doors and shutters were bolted, and behind them the children cried, as quietly as if fear itself kept their mouths shut, while their parents peered out into the night, fearfully wondering how dark the future would be under their new master. But suddenly hoofbeats echoed down the alley where the cobblers and saddlers lived’ – how easily the words came now! They flowed over Meggie’s tongue as if they had been just waiting to be read aloud, to be brought to life this very night. ‘People hurried to their windows. They looked out in fear, expecting to see one of the men-at-arms or even the Piper himself with his silver nose, but someone else came riding up to the castle, and the sight of him, familiar as it was, yet turned their faces pale. For the new arrival who came riding through sleepless Ombra bore the face of their dead prince, Cosimo the Fair, who had been resting in his crypt so long.
His likeness rode down the street on a white horse, and he was as handsome as all the songs about the fair Cosimo said. He rode through the castle gateway with the Adderhead’s banner flying above it, reined in his horse in the quiet nocturnal courtyard, and for all who saw him there in the moonlight, sitting erect on his white horse, it was as if Cosimo had never been away. Then all the weeping was over, the weeping and the fear. The people of Ombra rejoiced, and others came from the most remote villages to see the man who bore a dead prince’s face, and they whispered, “Cosimo is back. Cosimo the Fair has come back to take his father’s place and protect Ombra from the Adderhead.”
And so it was. The saviour of the city ascended the throne, and the birthmark on Her Ugliness’s face faded. Cosimo the Fair had his father’s court poet summoned, and asked his advice, for he had been told how wise a man he was, and now a great new age began.’
Meggie lowered the parchment. A great new age …
Fenoglio hurried to the window. Meggie had heard the sound too – hoofbeats – but she did not rise to her feet.
‘That must be him!’ whispered Fenoglio. ‘He’s coming, oh, Meggie, he’s coming! Listen!’
But Meggie still sat there looking at the written words on her lap. It seemed to her that they were breathing. Paper made flesh, ink made blood … suddenly she was tired, so tired that it seemed much too far to walk to the window. She felt like a child who had climbed down into the cellar all alone, and now felt scared. If only Mo were here …
‘Any moment now! He’ll be riding by any moment now!’ Fenoglio leaned so far out of the window that he was in danger of falling head first into the alley. At least he was still here – he hadn’t disappeared the way he did when she summoned the Shadow. But where else would he have gone, Meggie wondered? There seemed to be only one story left, this story, Fenoglio’s story. And it seemed to have no beginning and no end.
‘Come on, Meggie!’ In great excitement, he beckoned her over. ‘You read it wonderfully, oh yes, wonderfully well! But I suppose you know that. Some of the phrases weren’t among the best I’ve ever written, it was a little clumsy here and there, a little more dramatic colour wouldn’t have hurt, but never mind, it worked! It definitely worked!’
There was a knock.
A knock on the door. Rosenquartz peered out of his nest, his face anxious, and Fenoglio turned, both alarmed and annoyed.
‘Meggie?’ whispered a voice. ‘Are you there, Meggie?’
It was Farid.
‘What does he want here?’ Fenoglio uttered a
less than delicate curse. ‘Send him away. We really can’t do with having him around just now. Oh – oh, look! Here he comes! Meggie, you’re an enchantress!’
The hoofbeats were louder now. But Meggie did not go to the window; she walked to the door instead. Farid was standing outside, his face downcast. He looked almost as if he’d been crying. ‘It’s Gwin, Meggie … Gwin’s back,’ he stammered. ‘I don’t know how he found me! I even threw stones to make him go away.’
‘Meggie!’ Fenoglio’s voice sounded worse than merely irritated. ‘Where are you?’
Without a word, she took Farid’s hand and drew him over to the window with her.
A white horse was coming up the narrow alley. Its rider had black hair, and his face was as young and handsome as the face of the statues in the castle, but his eyes were not stony white; instead, they were bright and as dark as his hair. He was looking around as if he had just woken from a dream, and one that didn’t entirely fit in with what he now saw.
‘Cosimo!’ whispered Farid, bewildered. ‘The dead Cosimo.’
‘Not exactly,’ Fenoglio whispered back. ‘First, he isn’t dead, as you can see for yourself, and second, he’s not that Cosimo. He’s a new one, a brand-new one, and Meggie and I have made him between us. Of course no one else will notice.’
‘Not even his wife?’
‘Well, maybe she will! But who cares about that? She hardly ever leaves the castle.’
Cosimo reined in his horse barely a metre from Minerva’s house. Instinctively, Meggie stepped back from the window. ‘What about him?’ she whispered. ‘Who does he himself think he is?’
‘What a question! He thinks he’s Cosimo, of course!’ replied Fenoglio impatiently. ‘Don’t get me confused, for heaven’s sake! All we’ve done is make sure the story goes on the way I originally planned it, no more and no less!’
Cosimo turned in his saddle and stared back down the street the way he had come – as if he had lost something, but had forgotten what it was. Then he clicked his tongue softly and urged his horse on, past Minerva’s husband’s workshop and the narrow house where the physician lived. Fenoglio often complained of the man’s lack of skill in pulling teeth.
‘That’s not a good idea.’ Farid retreated from the window as if the Devil himself had gone riding by. ‘It’s bad luck to summon the dead.’
‘He never was dead, damn it all!’ snapped Fenoglio. ‘How often do I have to explain? He was born this very day, from my words and Meggie’s voice, so don’t talk such nonsense. What are you doing here anyway? Since when do people come visiting decent girls in the middle of the night?’
Farid’s face flushed dark red. Then he turned without a word and went to the door.
‘Leave him alone! He can visit me whenever he likes!’ Meggie told Fenoglio sharply. The stairs were slippery with rain, and she didn’t catch up with Farid until he had reached the last step. He looked so sad.
‘What did you tell Dustfinger? Did you tell him how Gwin followed us?’
‘No, I didn’t dare.’ Farid leaned against the wall of the house and closed his eyes. ‘You should have seen his face when he saw the marten. Do you think he’ll have to die now, Meggie?’
She put out her hand and touched his face. He really had been crying. She could feel the dried tears on his skin.
‘That’s what Cheeseface said!’ She could hardly make out the words he was whispering. ‘He said I’d bring him bad luck.’
‘What are you talking about? Dustfinger should be glad to have you!’
Farid looked up at the sky. Rain was still falling. ‘I must go back,’ he said. ‘That’s why I came. To tell you I must stay with him now. I have to look after him – do you understand? If I keep close by him, then nothing bad will happen. You can visit me, though, at Roxane’s farm! We’re there most of the time. Dustfinger is crazy about her, he hardly ever leaves her side. Roxane this, Roxane that …’ There was no mistaking the jealousy in his voice.
Meggie knew how he felt. She still clearly remembered those first few weeks back at Elinor’s house, and her troubled heart when Mo spent hours going for walks with Resa, and didn’t even ask if she would like to come too. She remembered what it felt like to stand outside a closed door and hear her father’s laughter on the other side, laughter meant not for her but for her mother. ‘Why do you look like that?’ Elinor had asked once, when she found Meggie watching the two of them in the garden. ‘Half his heart still belongs to you. Isn’t that enough?’ She had felt so ashamed. At least Farid was only jealous of a stranger. She’d been jealous of her own mother.
‘Please, Meggie! I must stay with him. Who else is going to look after him? Roxane? She doesn’t know anything about the marten, and anyway …’
Meggie turned her head away so that he wouldn’t see her disappointment. Bother Gwin! She traced small circles on the damp ground with her toe.
‘You will come, won’t you?’ Farid took her hands. ‘There are wonderful plants growing in Roxane’s fields, and she has a goose who thinks she’s a watchdog, and an old horse. Jehan, that’s her son, says there’s a linchetto living in the stable, don’t ask me what a linchetto is, but Jehan says if you fart at it, it runs away. Well, Jehan’s still just a baby, but I think you’d like him …’
‘Is he Dustfinger’s son?’ Meggie tucked her hair back behind her ear and tried to smile.
‘No, but guess what? Roxane thinks I am. Imagine that! Please, Meggie! Come to Roxane’s, do!’ He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her full on her mouth. His skin was wet with rain. When she didn’t pull away, he took her face between his hands and kissed her again, on her forehead, on her nose, on her mouth once more. ‘You will come, won’t you? Promise!’ he whispered.
Then he ran away, fleet-footed as always, ever since the day Meggie had first set eyes on him. ‘You must come!’ he called back to her once more, before disappearing into the dark passage leading out to the street. ‘Maybe you’d better stay with us for a while – Dustfinger and me, I mean! That old man is crazy. You don’t go playing games with the dead!’
Then he had gone, and Meggie was leaning against the wall of Minerva’s house, where Farid had been standing a moment ago. She passed her fingers over her mouth, as if she must make sure that Farid’s kiss had not changed it in some way.
‘Meggie?’ Fenoglio was standing at the top of the stairs, a lantern in his hand. ‘What are you doing down there? Has the boy gone? What did he want? Standing around in the dark there with you!’
Meggie did not reply. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She just wanted to listen to what her bewildered heart was telling her.
31
Elinor
Out in the world not much happened. But here in the special night, a land bricked with paper and leather, anything might happen, always did.
Ray Bradbury,
Something Wicked This Way Comes
Elinor spent a couple of miserable days and nights in her cellar. The man built like a wardrobe brought them something to eat morning and evening – at least, they assumed it was morning and evening, always supposing that Darius’s watch was still keeping time. When the bulky figure first appeared with bread and a plastic bottle of water, she had thrown the bottle at his head. Or rather, she’d tried to, but the colossus ducked just in time and the bottle burst against the wall.
‘Never again, Darius!’ Elinor whispered when the wardrobe-man, grunting contemptuously, had locked them in once more. ‘I was never going to let myself be locked up again, that’s what I swore back in that stinking cage, when those arsonists walked past the bars with their rifles and flicked burning cigarette ends in my face. And now here I am locked up in my own cellar!’
On the first night she got up from the air mattress, which made all her bones ache, and threw cans of food against the wall. Darius just crouched there on the blanket he had spread out over the cushion for the garden bench, looking at her wide-eyed. By the afternoon of the second day – or was it the third
? – Elinor was breaking jars, sobbing when she cut her fingers on the glass. Darius was just sweeping up the broken pieces when the wardrobe-man came to fetch her. Darius tried to follow, but the wardrobe-man pushed his thin chest so roughly that he stumbled and fell among the olives, preserved tomatoes, and all the other things that had spilled out of the jars when Elinor smashed them.
‘Bastard!’ she snapped at the colossus, but he just grinned, pleased as a child who has knocked down a tower of building bricks, and hummed to himself as he led Elinor to her library. Who says bad people can’t be happy too? she thought as he opened the door and jerked his head, indicating that she should go in.
Her library was a shocking sight. There were dirty mugs and plates strewn around everywhere – on the window-sill, on the carpet, even on the glass cases containing her greatest treasures – and that wasn’t the worst of it. Her books were the worst. Hardly any of them were still in their right places. They were stacked on the floor among the unwashed coffee mugs, they were scattered in front of the windows. Many even lay flat on the floor open, their spines upward. Elinor couldn’t bear to look! Didn’t the monster know that was the way to break a book’s neck?
If he did, it didn’t bother him. Orpheus was sitting in her favourite armchair, his dreadful dog beside him holding something between its paws that looked suspiciously like one of her gardening shoes. Its master had draped his plump legs over one arm of the chair, and was holding a beautifully illustrated book about fairies that Elinor had bought in an auction only two months ago, paying such a high price that it had made Darius bury his head in his hands.
‘That,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly, ‘that is a very, very valuable book.’
Orpheus turned his head to her and smiled. It was the smile of a naughty boy. ‘I know!’ he said in his velvety voice. ‘You have very, very many valuable books, Signora Loredan.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Elinor icily. ‘That’s why I don’t stack them any old how, like egg-boxes or slices of cheese. Each has its own place.’
This observation only made Orpheus smile even more broadly. He closed the book, after dog-earing one of the pages. Elinor drew in her breath sharply.
‘Books aren’t glass vases, dear lady,’ said Orpheus as he sat up in the chair. ‘They’re not as fragile or as decorative. They’re just books! It’s their contents that matter, and their contents won’t fall out if you stack them in a pile.’ He ran his hand over his smooth hair, as if afraid his parting might have slipped. ‘Sugar says you wanted to speak to me?’
Elinor cast an incredulous glance at the wardrobe-man. ‘Sugar?’
The giant smiled, revealing such an extraordinary collection of bad teeth that Elinor didn’t have to wonder how he got his nickname.
‘I certainly do. I’ve been wanting to speak to you for days. I insist on being let out of the cellar – and my librarian, too! I’m sick of having to pee in a bucket in my own house, and not knowing whether it’s day or night. I order you to bring my niece and her husband back. They’re in the greatest danger, and it’s all your fault, and I order you to keep your fat fingers off my books, damn it!’
Elinor shut her mouth – and cursed herself with every curse she could call to mind. Oh no! What was Darius always telling her? What had she told herself hundreds of times, lying down there on that horrible air mattress? Control yourself, Elinor, be cunning, Elinor, watch your tongue – all useless. She had burst like a balloon blown up too far.
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