"Come along, let's go looking for him, to warn him about the Magpie and Snapper!" she whispered to her unborn child. "We've been standing back and watching for too long. From now on we'll play our part, even if Fenoglio hasn't written us one."
Only Roxane knew what she was planning, no one else. Not Elinor, not Meggie. They'd both have wanted to come, too. But she must go alone, although that would make Meggie angry with her once again. She still hadn't entirely forgiven Resa for riding to Orpheus, or for that night in the graveyard. Meggie didn't forgive easily when her father's well-being was at stake. He was the only one she always forgave.
Resa took Fenoglio's book out from under the blanket beneath which she slept. She had asked Battista to make a leather bag for it, of course without telling him that he himself, more than likely, had been born between its pages. "That's a strange book," he had remarked. "What scribe writes such ugly letters? And what kind of binding is that? Had the bookbinder run out of leather?"
She wasn't sure what Dustfinger would have said about her plan. It still touched her that he had entrusted the book to her. But now she must do as she thought right.
She looked across the cave at her daughter. Meggie was sleeping beside Farid, but Doria slept only a little farther off, his face turned toward her. Orpheus's former glass man lay beside him, the boy's hand over him like a blanket. How young Meggie still looked in her sleep! Resa almost bent down to push the hair back from her daughter's forehead. It still hurt to think of all the years she had spent away from her, it hurt so much. Hurry up, Resa, she told herself. Day is already beginning to dawn outside. Soon they'd all be awake, and then they wouldn't let her leave.
Elinor murmured something in her sleep as Resa slipped past her, and the guard at the cave entrance glanced her way when she went around behind the wall that Fenoglio had built, as if to ward off the world he himself had made. He and his glass man were snoring in competition, like a bear and a grasshopper. Rosenquartz's tiny fingers were black with ink, and the sheet of paper beside him was covered with freshly written words, but nearly all of them had been crossed out.
Resa put the bag containing the book down beside the wineskin for which Fenoglio was still inclined to reach, even though Elinor lost no opportunity to lecture him on his drinking. She put the letter she had written him between the pages, so that it stuck out of the bag like a white hand. He couldn't miss it.
Fenoglio, she had written – it had taken her a long time to look for the right words, and she still wasn't sure she had found them – I am giving Inkheart back to the man who wrote it. Perhaps your own book can tell you how this story is going to end and will whisper you words to protect Meggie's father. Meanwhile, I will try to make sure, in my own way, that the song of the Bluejay doesn't end sadly. Resa.
The sky was turning red as she stepped out of the cave, and it was bitterly cold. Woodenfoot was standing guard under the trees. He watched suspiciously as she turned north. Perhaps he didn't even recognize her in men's clothing. Some bread and a waterskin, a knife, the compass that Elinor had brought from their old world – that was all she was taking. It wouldn't be the first time she'd had to manage on her own in this world. But she hadn't gone far before she heard heavy footsteps behind her.
"Resa!" The Strong Man sounded injured, like a child catching his sister in the act of running away. "Where are you going?"
As if he didn't know.
"You can’t follow him! I promised him I'd look after you – you and your daughter." He held her firmly, and anyone held firmly by the Strong Man wasn't going to get away.
"Let me go!" she snapped at him. "He doesn't know about Snapper. I have to follow him! You can look after Meggie "
"Doria will do that. I've never seen him look at a girl the way he looks at her. And Battista's there, too." He was still holding her. "It's a long way to the Castle in the Lake. Very long and very dangerous."
"Roxane has told me how to get there."
"Oh yes? And did she tell you about the Night-Mares? And the Redcaps, and the black elves?"
"They haunted Capricorn's fortress, too, and every one of his men was worse. So go back. I can look after myself."
"I'm sure. And you can take on Snapper and the Piper, too." Without another word he took the waterskin from her. "The Bluejay will kill me when he sees you!"
The Bluejay. Suppose she met only him, and not her husband, at the castle? Mo might understand why she had followed him, but not the Bluejay.
"Let's go." The Strong Man marched off. He was as obstinate as he was strong. Not even the Black Prince could make him change his mind once he'd made it up, and Resa didn't even try. It would be good to have his company, very good. She hadn't often been alone in the forests of the Inkworld, and she didn't like to remember the times when she had been.
"Strong Man?" she asked when they had left the cave where her daughter was sleeping far behind. "What did you think of the magpie that flew to Gecko?"
"That was no magpie," he said. "It had a woman's voice. But I didn't say anything. The others would only have said I was crazy again."
48. WAITING
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding" from Four Quartets
The Castle in the Lake was an oyster that had closed itself off from the world. Not a single window had a view of the mountains around. Not a single window looked out on the lake lapping at its dark walls. Once you had left the gate behind you there was only the castle: its dark and narrow courtyards, covered bridges linking its towers, walls painted with worlds like nothing that existed in the world outside these windowless fortifications. They showed gardens and gently rolling hills populated by unicorns, dragons, and peacocks, and above them an eternally blue sky with white clouds drifting over it. The pictures were everywhere, in the rooms, along the corridors, on the courtyard walls. You saw them through every window (and there were many windows inside the castle). Painted views of a world that didn't exist. But the moist breath of the lake made paint flake off the stones, so that it seemed in many places as if someone had tried to wipe the painted lies off the walls.
Only from the towers, where the view was not interrupted by walls, oriels, and roofs, could you see the world that really surrounded the castle, the great lake and the mountains that lay around it. Mo was immediately drawn to the battlements, where he could feel the sky above him and look at the world that fascinated him so much that he kept making his way deeper and deeper into it, even though it might not be any more real than the pictures on the walls. But Violante just wanted to see the rooms with windows looking out on painted worlds, rooms where her mother had played in the past.
She moved through the castle as if she had come home, tenderly caressing the furniture, which was gray with dust, scrutinizing every piece of earthenware that she found under the cobwebs, and examining the pictures on the walls as closely as if they told her tales of her mother. "This was the room where she and her sisters did their lessons. Look, those were their desks! They had a horrible tutor!" "This was where my grandmother slept!" "This was where they kept the hounds, this was the dovecote for the pigeons who carried their messages."