Inkheart 2 Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

Author:Cornelia Funke [Funke, Cornelia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-04-01T02:33:45+00:00

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.

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