"Keeping a bad promise makes it no better, " said Fenoglio. "Or at least so a favorite book of mine says. "
"I don't know if it was a bad promise. " Mo sighed and looked up at the ceiling as if the answer might be found there. "Very well, " he said. "I'll tell you. But Dustfinger will murder me if he finds out."
"Dustfinger? I once called a character that. Oh yes, of course, the poor trickster in Inkheart. I killed him off in the last chapter but one. A very touching scene. I cried tears while I was writing it. "
Meggie almost choked on the piece of cake she had just put in her mouth, but Fenoglio went on calmly. "I haven't killed off many of my characters, but sometimes it just happens. Death scenes aren't easy to write – they can too easily get sentimental – but I thought I did pretty well with Dustfinger's death. "
Horrified, Meggie looked at Mo. "He dies? Did – did you know that?"
"Yes, of course. I've read the whole story, Meggie. "
"But why didn't you tell him?"
"He didn't want to know. "
Fenoglio was following this exchange with a puzzled look on his face – and with great curiosity.
"Who kills him?" asked Meggie. "Basta?"
"Ah, Basta!" Fenoglio smiled. Each of his separate wrinkles expressed self-satisfaction. "One of the best villains I ever thought up. A rabid dog, but not half as bad as my other dark hero Capricorn. Basta would have let his heart be torn out for Capricorn, but his master is a stranger to such loyalty. He feels nothing, nothing at all, he doesn't even enjoy his own cruelty. Yes, I really did think up some pretty dark characters for Inkheart. And then there's the Shadow, Capricorn's hound, as I always called him to myself. Though of course that's far too friendly a name for such a monster."
"The Shadow?" Meggie's voice was hardly more than a whisper."Does he kill Dustfinger?"
"No, no. I'm sorry, I'd quite forgotten your question. Once I begin talking about my characters it's hard to stop me. No, one of Capricorn's men kills Dustfinger. It was a very successful scene. Dustfinger has some kind of tame marten. Capricorn's man wants to kill it because he enjoys killing small animals, so Dustfinger tries to save his furry friend and dies in the attempt."
Meggie said nothing. Poor Dustfinger, she thought. Poor, poor Dustfinger. She couldn't think of anything else."Which of Capricorn's men does it?" she asked."Flatnose? Or Cockerell?"
Fenoglio looked at her in surprise."Well, fancy that. You know all their names? I usually forget them soon after I've made them up."
"It's neither of them, Meggie," said Mo."The murderer's name isn't even mentioned in the book. A whole pack of Capricorn's men is hunting Gwin, and one of them draws a knife and uses it. A man who's probably still waiting for Dustfinger."
"Waiting for him?" Fenoglio looked at Mo, confused.
"That's terrible!" whispered Meggie."I'm glad I didn't read anymore."
"What do you mean? Are you talking about my book?" Fenoglio's voice sounded hurt.
"Yes," said Meggie."I am." She looked at Mo, a question in her eyes."And Capricorn? Who kills him?"
"No one."
"No one!"
Meggie stared at Fenoglio so accusingly that he rubbed his nose awkwardly. It was an impressive nose."Why are you looking at me like that?" he cried."Yes, I let him get away with it. He's one of my best villains. How could I kill him off? It's the same in real life: Notorious murderers get off scot-free and live happily all their lives, while good people die – sometimes the very best people. That's the way of the world. Why should it be different in books?"
"What about Basta? Does he stay alive, too?" Meggie remembered what Farid had said back in the ruined hoveclass="underline" "Why not kill them? That's what they were going to do to us!"
"Basta stays alive, too, " replied Fenoglio. "I remember toying for some time with the idea of writing a sequel to Inkheart, and I didn't want to do without those two. I was proud of them! And the Shadow was quite a success, too, yes, he really was, but I'm always most attached to my human characters. You know, if you were to ask me which of those two I was prouder of, Basta or Capricorn, I couldn't tell you! Even though some critics said they were just too nasty!"
Mo stared out of the window again. Then he looked at Fenoglio. "Would you like to meet them?" he asked.
"Meet who?" Fenoglio looked at him in surprise.
"Capricorn and Basta. "
"Good God, no!" Fenoglio laughed so loud that Paula, quite frightened, put her hand over his mouth.
"Well, we did, " said Mo wearily. "Meggie and I – and Dustfinger."
25. THE WRONG ENDING
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR
per
G. G., CHIEF OF ORDNANCE
Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Fenoglio said nothing for a long time after Mo had finished his story. Paula had gone off long ago in search of Pippo and Rico. Meggie heard them running over the wooden floorboards above them, back and forth, jumping, sliding, giggling, and squealing. But in Fenoglio's kitchen it was so quiet you could hear the tick of the clock on the wall by the window.
"Does he have those scars on his face? l expect you know what I mean? The fairies treated the cuts – that's why there are only slight scars left, little more than three pale lines on the skin, is that right?" Fenoglio looked inquiringly at Mo, who nodded.
Fenoglio looked out of the window again, brushing a few crumbs off his pants. "Basta scarred him, " he said. "They both fancied the same girl. "
Mo nodded. "Yes, I know. "
A window was open in the house opposite, and you could hear a woman scolding a child inside. "I suppose I ought to feel very, very proud, " murmured Fenoglio. "Every writer wants to create lifelike characters – and mine are so lifelike they've walked straight off the page!"
"That's because my father read them out of the book, " said Meggie. "He can do it with other books, too. "
"Yes, of course. " Fenoglio nodded. "A good thing you reminded me. Otherwise I might start taking myself for a minor god, mightn't I? But I'm sorry about your mother – although depending on how you look at it, that wasn't really my fault. "
"It's worse for my father, " said Meggie. "I don't remember her. "
Mo looked at her, startled.
"Of course not. You were younger than my grandchildren," said Fenoglio thoughtfully. "I'd really like to see him, " he added. "Dustfinger, I mean. Naturally I'm sorry now that I thought up such an unhappy ending for the poor fellow, but it somehow seemed right for him. As Shakespeare puts it so well, 'Everybody plays his part, and mine is a sad one.'" He looked out into the street. Something fell and broke on the floor above them, but Fenoglio didn't seem particularly interested.
"Are those your children?" asked Meggie, pointing up at the ceiling.
"Heaven help us, no. My grandchildren. One of my daughters lives in this village, too. They're always visiting me and I tell them stories. I tell half the village stories, but I don't feel like writing them down anymore. " He turned to Mo with an inquiring look. "Where is he now?"
"Dustfinger? I can't tell you. He doesn't want to see you. "
"He got quite a shock when my father told him about you, " added Meggie. But Dustfinger must be told what happens to him, she thought, he must. Then he'll understand why he really can't go back. And all the same, she thought next, he'll still be homesick. Homesick forever.