Inkheart

25. THE WRONG ENDING

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.

"I must see him! Only once. Don't you understand?" Fenoglio looked pleadingly at Mo. "I could just follow you, inconspicuously. How would he know who I am? I want to find out if he really looks the way I imagined him, that's all. "

However, Mo shook his head. "I think you'd better leave him alone. "

"Nonsense. Surely I can see him whenever I like. After all, I invented him!"

"And you killed him off, " Meggie pointed out.

"Well. " Fenoglio raised his hands helplessly. "I wanted to make the story more exciting. Don't you like exciting stories?"

"Only if they have happy endings. "

"Happy endings!" Fenoglio snorted scornfully and then listened to what was going on upstairs. Something or someone had landed heavily on the wooden floorboards. Loud howls followed the thud. Fenoglio strode to the door. "Wait here! I'll be back in a minute!" he called, disappearing into the corridor.

"Mo!" whispered Meggie. "You've got to tell Dustfinger! You've got to tell him he can't go back. "

But Mo shook his head. "He won't want to listen, I promise you. I've tried more than a dozen times. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to bring him together with Fenoglio after all. He might well be more likely to believe his creator than me. " With a sigh, he brushed a few cake crumbs off Fenoglio's kitchen table. "There was a picture in Inkheart, " he murmured, raising the palm of his hand over the tabletop as if to conjure up the picture itself. "It showed a group of women standing under an arched gateway, in splendid clothes as if they were going to a party. One of them had hair as fair as your mother's. You can't see the woman's face in the picture, she has her back turned, but I always imagined it was her. Crazy, isn't it?"

Meggie placed her hand on his. "Mo, promise you won't go back to the village!" she said. "Please! Promise me you won't try to get the book back. "

The second hand on Fenoglio's kitchen clock was dividing time into painfully small segments. At last Mo answered. "I promise, " he said.

"Look at me and say it!"

He did. "I promise!" he repeated. "There's just one more thing I want to discuss with Fenoglio, and then we'll go home and forget about the book. Happy now?"

Meggie nodded. Although she wondered what else there could be to discuss.

Fenoglio returned with a tearful Pippo on his back. The other two children followed their grandfather, looking crestfallen. "Holes in the cake and now a dent in his forehead, too. I think I ought to send all of you home!" Fenoglio told them crossly as he put Pippo down on a chair. Then he rummaged around in the big cupboard until he found a Band-Aid, which he stuck none too gently on his grandson's cut forehead.

Mo pushed his chair back and stood up. "I've changed my mind, " he said. "I'll take you to Dustfinger after all. "

Fenoglio turned to him in surprise.

"Perhaps you can make it clear to him once and for all that he can't go back, " Mo continued. "Goodness knows what he might do next! I'm afraid it could be dangerous for him – and I do have this idea, rather a weird idea, but I'd like to talk to you about it."

"Weirder than what I've heard already? I'd say that's hardly possible!" Fenoglio's grandchildren had disappeared into the cupboard again. Giggling, they closed the doors. "Very well, I'll listen to your idea, " said Fenoglio. "But I want to see Dustfinger first!"

Mo looked at Meggie. It wasn't often that he broke a promise, and he clearly felt far from comfortable about it. Meggie could understand that only too well. "He's waiting in the square, " said Mo hesitantly. "But let me talk to him first. "

"In the square here?" Fenoglio's eyes widened. "That's wonderful!" With one stride he was standing in front of the little mirror hanging next to the kitchen door, running his fingers through his black hair almost as if he were afraid Dustfinger might be disappointed by his creator's appearance. "I'll pretend I don't see him until you call me, " he said. "Yes, that's the thing to do. "

There was a clattering in the cupboard, and Pippo stumbled out in a jacket that came down to his ankles and a hat so large that it had slipped right over his eyes.

"Of course!" Fenoglio took the hat off Pippo's head and put it on his own. "That's it! I'll take the children with me. A grandfather with three grandchildren – nothing about that sight to make anyone uneasy, is there?"

Mo just nodded and pushed Meggie out into the narrow hallway.

As they walked down the street leading back to the square and their car, Fenoglio followed a few meters behind them, with his grandchildren running and jumping around him like three puppies.