Inkspell

“No one would come.” Minerva sobbed as she fell to her knees beside the dead man. “They were all afraid. Every one of them!”



“CloudDancer,” murmured the physician. Bone-knitter, he was often called, Stonecutter, Piss-Prophet, and sometimes, when he had lost a patient, Angel of Death. “Only a week ago he was asking if I knew anything that would do the pain in his knee good.”



Fenoglio remembered seeing the physician with the Black Prince. Should he tell him what CloudDancer had said about the Secret Camp? Could he trust him? No, it was better to trust no one.



Nothing and no one. The Adderhead had many spies. Fenoglio straightened up. Never before had he felt so old, so very old that it seemed as if he couldn’t survive another single day. The mill that Meggie had mentioned in her letter, where the devil was it? The name had sounded familiar…



Well, of course it did; he himself had described it in one of the last chapters of Inkheart. The miller was no friend to the Adderhead, even though his mill stood near the Castle of Night, in a dark valley south of the Way less Wood.



“Minerva,” he asked, “how long does it take a mounted man to get from here to the Castle of Night?”



“Two days for sure, if he’s not going to ruin his horse,” replied Minerva quietly.



Two days, if not less, before Basta found out what was in Meggie’s letter. If he rode to the Castle of Night with it, that was. But he’s sure to do that, thought Fenoglio. Basta can’t read, so he will take the letter to Mortola, and the Magpie is sure to be at the Castle of Night. Yes, there were probably two days to go before Mortola would read what Meggie had said and send Basta to the mill. Where Meggie might already be waiting… Fenoglio sighed. Two days. Perhaps that would be enough to get a warning to her, but not to write the words she hoped he would send – words to save her parents.



Write something, Fenoglio. Write ..



As if it were so simple! Meggie, Cosimo, they all wanted words from him. It was easy for them to talk. You needed time to find the right words, and enough time was exactly what he didn’t have!



“Minerva, tell Rosenquartz I have to go to the castle,” said Fenoglio. Suddenly, he felt dreadfully tired. “Tell him I’ll fetch him later.”



Minerva stroked Despina’s hair – the girl was sobbing into her skirt – and nodded. “Yes, you go to the castle!” she said huskily. “Go and tell Cosimo to send soldiers after those murderers. By God, I’ll be in the front row to watch them hang!”



“Hang? What are you talking about?” The physician ran a hand through his sparse hair and looked sadly down at the dead man. “CloudDancer was one of the strolling players. No one gets hanged for stabbing a strolling player. There’s a harsher penalty for killing a hare in the forest.”



Ivo looked incredulously at Fenoglio. “Will they really not punish them?”



What was he to tell the boy? No, it was a fact. No one would punish them. Perhaps the Black Prince might someday, or the man who had taken to wearing the Bluejay’s mask, but Cosimo wouldn’t send a single soldier after Basta. The Motley Folk were all outlaws, in Lombrica and Argenta alike. Subject to none, protected by none. But Cosimo will give me a horseman if ask him, thought Fenoglio, a fast horseman who can warn Meggie of Basta. “Write something, Fenoglio.



Save them! Write something that will set them all free and kill the Adderhead.. . “Yes, by God, he would. He’d write rousing songs for Cosimo and powerful words for Meggie. And then her voice could help this story to find a good ending at last.



Chapter 40 – No Hope



The mustard-pot got up and walked over to his plate on thin silver legs that waddled like the owl’s… “Oh, I love the mustard-pot!” cried the Wart. “Wherever did you get it?”



– T. H. White, The Sword in the Stone



Luckily, Darius was a good cook, or Orpheus would probably have locked up Elinor in the cellar again after the very first meal and read himself food to eat out of her books. Thanks to Darius’s cooking, however, they were able to spend time upstairs more often – although under the watchful eye of Sugar – for Orpheus liked his food, and plenty of it, and he enjoyed what Darius cooked.



Fearing that otherwise Orpheus might let only Darius upstairs, they pretended that Elinor had concocted all those delicacies with their appetizing aromas and Darius was just her assistant, tirelessly chopping, stirring, and tasting; but as soon as Sugar, getting bored, left the kitchen to stare at the bookshelves, Darius took over the wooden spoon and Elinor the chopping not that she was much better at chopping than cooking.



Now and then some bewildered figure, looking around as if lost, stumbled into the kitchen.



Sometimes the visitor was human, sometimes furry or feathered, once it was even a talking mustard-pot. Elinor could usually work out, from the appearance of each one, which of her poor books Orpheus had in his pale hands at that moment. Tiny men with old-fashioned hairstyles were presumably from Gulliver’s Travels. The mustard-pot was very probably from Merlin’s cottage, and the enchanting and extremely confused faun who tripped in one lunchtime on delicate goat’s hooves must have come from Narnia.



Naturally, Elinor wondered anxiously if all these creatures were in her library when they didn’t happen to be standing glassy-eyed in the kitchen, and finally she asked Darius to go and find out, on the pretext of asking what Orpheus wanted to eat. He came back with the reassuring news that her Holy of Holies was still in dreadful disorder, but apart from Orpheus, his horrible dog, and a rather pale gentleman who looked to Darius suspiciously like the Canterville Ghost, no one was pawing, soiling, sniffing, or otherwise damaging Elinor’s books.



“Thank God!” she sighed, relieved. “He obviously makes them all disappear again. I must say that appalling man really does know his trade. And it looks as if he can read them out of a book by now without making someone else disappear into it!”



“No doubt about that,” remarked Darius – and Elinor thought she heard a trace of envy in his gentle voice.



“He’s a monster all the same,” she said, in a clumsy attempt to console him. “It’s just a pity this house is so well stocked with provisions, or he’d have had to send the wardrobe-man shopping, and then he’d be alone facing the two of us.”



As it was, however, days passed by, and there was nothing they could do about either their own imprisonment or the fact that Mortimer and Resa were probably in deadly danger. Elinor tried not even to think of Meggie. And Orpheus, the one person who could obviously have put everything right with such ease, sat in her library like a pale, fat spider, playing with her books and the characters who populated them, as if they were toys to be taken out and put away again.



“How much longer is he planning to go on like this, I ask myself?” she said for about the hundredth time as Darius was putting rice in a serving dish – rice cooked just long enough, of course, so that it was soft but the grains were all separate. “Is he planning to keep us cooking and cleaning for him as unpaid servants for the rest of his life, while he amuses himself with my poor books? In my house? ”



Darius did not reply. Instead, and without a word, he piled food onto four plates – this was a meal that certainly wasn’t going to send Orpheus out of the house.