“Hello,” she said awkwardly. “How are you?” It was strange to see him again. She felt both pleased and distrustful.

Behind them, people were flowing ceaselessly toward the city gate: peasants, tradesmen, entertainers, beggars, everyone who had heard of Cosimo’s return. Although there were no telephones or newspapers in this world, and only the rich wrote letters, news traveled fast here.

“Fine! Yes, I’m really fine!” Now he was smiling after all and not in his usual enigmatic way. Farid had told the truth. Dustfinger was happy. It almost seemed to embarrass him. His face looked so much younger, in spite of the scars; but suddenly it turned grave again.

The other marten jumped down on the ground when his master took the backpack off his shoulders and brought out a piece of paper. “I’d meant to talk to you about Cosimo, our prince who has so surprisingly come back from the dead,” he said, unfolding the crumpled piece of paper. “But I think I’d better show you this first.”

Baffled, Meggie took the note. When she saw the handwriting, she looked at Dustfinger with incredulity. How had he come by a letter from her mother? Here, in this world?

But all he said was: “Read it.” And Meggie read it. The words were like a noose going around her neck, drawing tighter with every word, until she could scarcely breathe.

“What is it?” asked Farid uneasily. “What does it say?” He looked at Dustfinger, but Dustfinger did not answer.

As for Meggie, she was staring at Resa’s words. “Mortola Mortola shot Mo?”

Behind them, people were pushing forward to see Cosimo, the brand-new Cosimo, but why should she be interested? Nothing else mattered to her now. There was just one thing she wanted to know.

“How .. ” she said, and looked at Dustfinger in desperation, “how come they’re here? And how is Mo? It’s not too bad, is it?”

Dustfinger avoided her eyes. “All I know is what it says there,” he said. “Mortola shot your father, Resa is with him in the Secret Camp, and she asked me to look for you. A friend brought me her note. He’s going back to the camp this morning, with Nettle. She –”

“Nettle? Resa told me about her!” Meggie interrupted him.

“She’s a healer, a very good one. . She’ll make Mo better, won’t she?”

“Of course,” said Dustfinger, but he still didn’t look at her. Farid’s gaze moved from him to Meggie in confusion. “Mortola shot Silvertongue?” he stammered. “Then the root’s for him! But you said it was dangerous!”

Dustfinger cast him a warning glance, and Farid fell silent. “Dangerous?” whispered Meggie.

“What’s dangerous?” “Nothing, nothing at all. I’ll take you to them right away.” Dustfinger slung the backpack over his shoulder. “Go to Fenoglio and tell him you’ll be away for a few days. Tell him Farid and I will be with you. I don’t suppose the news will relieve his mind very much, but that’s too bad. Don’t say where we’re going, and don’t say why! News travels fast in these hills, and it would be better,” he added, lowering his voice, “if Mortola doesn’t find out that your father is still alive. The camp where he is now is known only to the strolling players, and they’ve all had to swear an oath never to let anyone who isn’t one of us know about the place. But all the same. .”

“.. oaths are made to be broken!” Meggie finished his sentence for him.

“You said it.” Dustfinger looked at the city gate. “Go now. It won’t be easy to get through that crowd, but hurry all the same. Tell the old man there’s a minstrel woman who lives on that hill, he –” “He knows who Roxane is,” Meggie interrupted.

“Of course!” This time Dustfinger’s smile was bitter. “I keep forgetting he knows all about me.

Right, tell him to let Roxane know I must be away for a few days. And ask him to keep an eye on my daughter. I suppose he knows who she is, too?” Meggie just nodded.

“Good,” Dustfinger went on. “Then tell the old man something else: If a single one of his accursed words harms Brianna, he’ll rue the day he ever thought up a man who can summon fire.”

“I’ll tell him!” Meggie whispered. Then she ran off, pushing and shoving her way through the crowds of people trying to get into the city. Mo, she thought. Mortola shot Mo. And her dream came back to her, her red, red dream.

Fenoglio was standing at the window when Meggie stumbled into his room.

“Good heavens, what do you think you look like?” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you not to go out while all these people are thronging the streets? But that boy only has to whistle and you go running to him like a well-trained puppy!”

“Stop that!” snapped Meggie, so abruptly that Fenoglio actually did fall silent. “You have to write something for me. And fast!”

She hauled him over to his desk, where Rosenquartz was quietly snoring away.

“Write what?” Confused, Fenoglio dropped into his chair.

“It’s my father,” faltered Meggie, taking one of the freshly sharpened quill pens out of the jug with shaking fingers. “He’s here, but Mortola’s shot him. He’s very sick! Dustfinger didn’t want to say so, but I could tell from the way he looked, so please write something, anything that will make him well again. He’s in the forest in the strolling players’ Secret Camp. Please, hurry!”

Fenoglio looked at her in bewilderment. “Shot your father? And he’s here? But why? I don’t understand!”

“You don’t have to understand!” cried Meggie desperately. “You just have to help him.

Dustfinger’s going to take me to him. And I’ll read him better, understand? I mean, he’s in your story now, you can even bring back the dead, so why can’t you heal a wound, too? Please!” She dipped the pen in the inkwell and put it into his hand.

“Heavens, Meggie!” murmured Fenoglio. “This is bad, but .. but with the best will in the world I don’t know what to write. I don’t even know where he is. If at least I knew what the place looks like .. ”

Meggie stared at him. Suddenly, the tears she had been holding back all this time were flowing.

“Please!” she whispered. “Just try! Dustfinger’s waiting. Outside by the gate.” Fenoglio looked at her and gently took the pen from her hand.

“I’ll try, then,” he said hoarsely. “You’re right, this is my story. I couldn’t have helped him in the other world, but perhaps I can here. Go to the window,” he told her, when she had brought him two sheets of parchment. “And look out of it, look at the people in the streets or the birds in the sky, occupy your mind somehow. Just don’t look at me or I won’t be able to write.”

Meggie obeyed. She saw Minerva and her children down in the crowd, and the woman who lived opposite; she watched pigs grunting as they pushed past the people, soldiers with the Laughing Prince’s emblem on their chests – yet she wasn’t really seeing any of it. She just heard Fenoglio dip his pen in the inkwell, heard it scratching over the parchment, pausing, and writing on again.

Please, she thought, please let him find the right words. Please. The pen fell silent for a painfully long time, while down in the street a beggar pushed a child aside with his crutch. Time passed slowly, like a shadow spreading. People thronged the streets, one dog barked at another, trumpets sounded from the castle, ringing out above the rooftops.