"A very particular book, " Mo went on. "Inkheart. You wrote it quite a long time ago, and unfortunately I can't buy a copy anywhere now. " With the man's icy stare still resting on her father, Meggie could only marvel that the words didn't freeze on Mo's lips.
"Oh yes. So?" Fenoglio crossed his arms. The girl appeared on his left again. "Pippo's hiding, " she said.
"That won't do him any good, " said Fenoglio. "I can always find him. " The little girl scurried off again. Meggie heard her in the house, calling to the chocolate thief. Fenoglio, however, turned back to Mo. "So, what do you want? If you're planning to ask me clever questions of some kind about the book, forget it. I don't have time for that sort of thing. Anyway, as you said yourself, I wrote it ages ago. "
"No, there's only one question I was going to ask. I'd like to know if you still have any copies, and if so may I buy one from you?"
The old man's expression was no longer quite so forbidding as he inspected Mo. "How extraordinary. You must be really keen on the book, " he murmured. "I'm flattered. Although, " he added, and his face darkened again, "I hope you're not one of those idiots who collect rare books just because they're rare, are you?"
Mo couldn't help smiling. "No, " he said. "I want to read it, that's all. I just want to read it. "
Fenoglio braced an arm against the door frame and looked at the house opposite as if he feared it might collapse at any moment. The street where he lived was so narrow that Mo could have touched both sides at once if he stretched out his arms. Many of the houses were built of coarse blocks of sandy gray stone, like the houses in Capricorn's village, but here there were flowers in window boxes and pots of plants on the steps, and many of the shutters looked as if they had been freshly painted. There was a baby carriage outside one house, a moped leaning against the wall of another, and voices floated into the street from open windows. Capricorn's village probably looked like this once, thought Meggie.
An old woman passing by looked suspiciously at the strangers. Fenoglio nodded to her, murmured a brief greeting, and waited until she had vanished behind a green-painted front door. "Inkheart, " he said. "That really is a long time ago. And it's odd that you should be asking about that one, of all my books. "
The girl came back. She tugged Fenoglio's sleeve and whispered something in his ear. Fenoglio's turtle face twisted in asmile. Meggie liked him better that way. "Oh, that's where he always hides, Paula," he told the little girl softly. "Perhaps you should advise him to try a better hiding place."
Paula ran off for the third time, but not before gazing curiously at Meggie first.
"Well, you'd better come in, " said Fenoglio. Without another word he showed Mo and Meggie into the house, went down a dark, narrow hallway ahead of them, limping because the little boy was still clinging to his leg like a monkey, and pushed open the door to the kitchen, where the ruins of a cake stood on the table. Its brown icing was as full of holes as the binding of a book when bookworms have been gnawing at it for years.
"Pippo?" Fenoglio bellowed so loudly that even Meggie jumped, although she didn't feel guilty of any naughtiness. "I know you can hear me. And I warn you I shall tie a knot in your nose for every hole in this cake. Understand?"
Meggie heard a giggle. It seemed to come from the cupboard next to the fridge. Fenoglio broke a piece off the cake with the holes still in it. "Paula, " he said, "give this girl a slice if she doesn't mind the missing chocolate. " Paula emerged from under the table and looked inquiringly at Meggie.
"I don't mind, " said Meggie, whereupon Paula took a huge knife, cut an enormous piece of cake, and put it on the table in front of her.
"Pippo, let's have one of the rose-patterned plates, " said Fenoglio, and a hand stuck out of the cupboard holding a plate in its chocolate-brown fingers. Meggie was quick to take the plate before it dropped, and put the piece of cake on it.
"What about you?" Fenoglio asked Mo.
"I'd prefer the book, " said Mo. He was looking rather pale.
Fenoglio removed the little boy from his leg and sat down.
"Go and find another tree to climb, Rico, " he said. Then he looked thoughtfully at Mo. "I'm afraid I can't help you, " he said. "I don't have a single copy left. They were stolen, all of them. I lent them to an exhibition of old children's books in Genoa: a lavishly illustrated special edition, a copy with asigned dedication by the illustrator, and the two copies that belonged to my own children with all their scribbled comments – I always asked them to mark the bits they liked best – and finally my own personal copy. Every last one of them stolen two days after the exhibition opened."
Mo ran a hand over his face as if he could wipe the disappointment off it. "Stolen, " he said. "Of course. "
"Of course?" Fenoglio narrowed his eyes and looked at Mo with great curiosity. "You'll have to explain. In fact I'm not letting you out of my house until I find out why you're interested in this of all my books. In fact, I might set the children on you – and you wouldn't like that!"
Mo tried for a smile, without much success. "My copy was stolen as well," he said at last. "And that was a very special edition, too. "
"Extraordinary." Fenoglio raised his eyebrows, which were like hairy caterpillars creeping above his eyes. "Come on, let's hear your story." All the hostility had vanished from his face. Curiosity, pure curiosity, had won out. In Fenoglio's eyes Meggie saw the same insatiable hunger for a good new story that overcame her at the sight of any new and exciting book.
"There's not much to tell, " said Mo. Meggie heard in his voice that he didn't intend to tell the old man the truth. "I restore books. That's how I make my living. I found yours in a secondhand bookstore some years ago, and I was going to give it a new binding, then sell it, but I liked it so much I kept it instead. And now it's been stolen and I've been trying in vain to buy another copy. A friend who knows a great deal about rare books and how to get hold of them finally suggested I might try the author himself. She was the person who found me your address. So I came here. "
Fenoglio wiped a few cake crumbs off the table. "Fine," he said, "but that's not the whole story. "
"What do you mean?"
The old man scrutinized Mo's face until he turned his head away and looked out of the narrow kitchen window. "I mean I can smell a good story miles away, so don't try keeping one from me. Out with it! And then you can have a piece of this magnificently perforated cake. "
Paula clambered up onto Fenoglio's lap, nestled her head under his chin, and looked at Mo as expectantly as the old man himself had.
But Mo shook his head. "No, I think I'd better say no more. You wouldn't believe a word of it anyway. "
"Oh, I'd believe all manner of things!" Fenoglio assured Mo, cutting him a slice of cake. "I'd believe any story at all just so long as it's well told. "
The cupboard door opened a crack, and Meggie saw a boy's head emerge. "What about my punishment?" he asked. Judging by his fingers, which were sticky with chocolate, this must be Pippo.
"Later, " said Fenoglio. "I have something else to do now."
Disappointed, Pippo came out of the cupboard. "You said you were going to tie knots in my nose."
"Double knots, seaman's knots, butterfly knots, any knots you fancy, but I have to hear this story first. So go and fool around with something else until I have time for you."
Pippo stuck his lower lip out sulkily and disappeared intothe corridor. Rico, the little boy, ran after him.
Mo remained silent, pushing cake crumbs off the rough tabletop, drawing invisible patterns on the wood with his forefinger. "There's someone in this story, and I've promised not to tell you about him, " he said at last.