Inkspell

“A glassmaker? Why a glassmaker?” Violante gazed at Fenoglio through the beryl. It looked almost as if her eye was made of fire.



“Glass can be ground to make your eyes see better, much better than through a stone, but there isn’t a glazier in Ombra who knows what I’m talking about!”



“Oh, I know, only the stonemasons are good for anything in this place! Balbulus says there’s not a single decent bookbinder in all Lombrica.”



I could tell you the name of a good one, thought Meggie instinctively, and for a moment she wished Mo were here, so much that it hurt. But Her Ugliness was looking at her book again.



“There are good glaziers in my father’s realm,” she said, without glancing up. “He’s had several windows in his castle filled in with glass. He had to sell off a hundred of his peasants to go for soldiers to pay for it.” Violante seemed to consider the price well worth paying.



I don’t think I like her, thought Meggie, as she went slowly from desk to desk. The bindings of the books lying on them were beautiful, and she would have loved to hide at least one of them under her dress, so that she could look at it in Fenoglio’s room at her leisure, but the chips holding the chains in place were firmly riveted to the wooden covers of the books.



“You’re welcome to look at them.” Her Ugliness spoke to Meggie so suddenly that she jumped.



Violante was still holding the red stone up to her eye, and Meggie was reminded of the blood red jewels at the corners of the Adderhead’s nostrils. His daughter resembled her father more than she probably knew.



“Thank you,” murmured Meggie, and opened one. She remembered the day when Mo had shown her how to open an old book without using her fingers. He had handed her a book with two brass clasps holding its wooden covers together. She had looked at him, baffled, and then, smiling at her, he had struck the front of the book with his fist so hard that the clasps snapped open like little mouths, and the book was opened as if by a ghostly hand.



But the book that Meggie opened in the Laughing Prince’s library showed no sign of age, as that other book had done. No speck of mold disfigured the parchment, no beetles or bookworms had nibbled it, like some of the manuscripts she had seen when Mo restored them. The years were not kind to parchment and paper; a book had many enemies, and in time it withered like a human body. “Which tells us, Meggie,” Mo always said, “that a book is a living thing!” If only she could have shown him this one!



Very, very carefully she turned the pages – yet her mind was not entirely on what she was doing, for the wind blew Farid’s voice into the room like the memory of another world. Meggie listened to what was going on outside as she snapped shut the clasps of the book again. Fenoglio and Violante were still talking about useless bookbinders. Neither of them was taking any notice of her, and Meggie stole over to one of the darkened windows and peered through the gap in the curtains. Her glance fell on a walled garden, beds full of brightly colored flowers, and Farid standing among them letting flames lick their way up his bare arms, just as Dustfinger had done the first time Meggie saw him breathing fire back in Elinor’s garden, before he betrayed her. .



Jacopo was laughing exuberantly. He clapped – and then stumbled back in alarm as Farid sent the torches whirling through the air like Catherine wheels. Meggie couldn’t help smiling; Dustfinger had certainly taught him a lot, even if Farid couldn’t yet breathe fire quite so high in the air as his teacher.



“Books? No, I told you, Cosimo never came in here!” Violante’s voice suddenly sounded considerably sharper, and Meggie turned around. “He thought nothing of books, he loved dogs, good boots, a fast horse .. there were days when he even loved his son. But I don’t want to talk about him.”



Laughter drifted up from outside again. Brianna joined Meggie at the window. “The boy’s a very good fire-eater,” she said.



“Really?” Her short-sighted mistress looked at her. “I thought you didn’t like fire-eaters. You’re always saying they’re feckless folk.”



“This one’s good. Much better than Sootbird.” Brianna’s voice sounded husky. “I noticed him at the celebrations.”



“Violante!” Fenoglio sounded impatient. “Could we forget about that fire-breathing boy for a moment? Very well, so Cosimo didn’t like books. These things happen. But surely you can tell me a little more about him!”



“Why?” Her Ugliness raised the beryl to her eye again. “Let Cosimo rest in peace, he’s dead! The dead don’t want to linger here. Why won’t anyone understand that? And if you want to know some secret about him – well, he had none! He could talk about weapons for hours on end. He liked fire-eaters and knife-throwers and wild rides through the night. He had the smiths show him how to forge a sword, and he fenced for hours with the guards down in the courtyard until he’d mastered every trick they knew, but when the minstrels struck up their songs he began yawning after the first verse. He wouldn’t have cared for any of the songs you’ve written about him. He might have liked the robber songs, but as for the idea that words can be like music, making the heart beat faster . . he had no ear for that! Even executions interested him more than words, although he never enjoyed them the way my father does.”



“Really?” Fenoglio sounded surprised but by no means disappointed. “Wild rides through the night,” he murmured. “Fast horses. Yes, why not?”



Her Ugliness wasn’t listening to him. “Brianna!” she said. “Take this book. If I praise Balbulus enough for his new pictures, perhaps he’ll leave it with us for a while.” Her maid took the book from her, an abstracted expression on her face, and went to the window again.



“But the people loved him, didn’t they?” Fenoglio had risen from his chair. “Cosimo was good to them .. to the peasants, the poor .. the strolling players.”



Violante stroked the mark on her cheek. “Yes, they all loved him. He was so handsome that you just had to love him. You couldn’t help it. But as for the peasants” – and she wearily rubbed her short-sighted eyes – “do you know what he always said about them? ‘Why are they so ugly?’ he asked. ‘Ugly clothes, ugly faces .. ‘When they brought their disputes to him he really did try to do justice fairly, but it bored him to tears. He could hardly wait to get away again, back to his father’s soldiers, his horse and his hounds. . ”



Fenoglio said nothing. He looked so baffled that Meggie almost felt sorry for him. Isn’t he going to make me read aloud after all? she wondered. And for a strange moment she felt something like disappointment.



“Come along, Brianna!” ordered Her Ugliness, but her maid did not stir. She was gazing down at the courtyard as if she had never seen a fire-eater before in her life.



Frowning, Violante went over to her. “What are you staring at?” she asked, squinting through the window with her short-sighted eyes.



“He .. he’s making flowers from fire,” stammered Brianna. “They start like golden buds and then they unfold like real flowers. I once saw something like that. . when I was very little. . ”



“Yes, very nice, but come along now.” Her Ugliness turned and made for the door. She had an odd way of walking, with her head slightly bent, yet carrying herself very upright. Brianna took a last look out the window before hurrying after her.