Free Inkheart by Cornelia Funke Page A

box.
    "Of course," said Meggie, although it wasn't true.
    "Turn around!" Elinor told her before setting to work on the alarm system. She frowned.
    "Heavens, all these knobs! I hope I haven't done something wrong again. Tell me as soon as the show's over — and don't even think of seizing your chance to slink into the library and take a book off the shelves. Remember that I sleep right next door, and my hearing is keener than a bat's."
    Meggie bit back the answer on the tip of her tongue. Elinor opened the front door. Without a word, Meggie pushed past her and went outside. It was a mild night, full of strange scents and 38

    the chirping of crickets. "Were you always as nice as this to my mother?" she asked as Elinor was about to close the door behind her.
    Elinor looked at her for a moment as if turned to stone. "Oh yes, I think so," she said. "Yes, I'm sure I was. And she was always as cheeky as you, too! Have fun with your fire-eater!" Then she shut the door.
    As Meggie was going through the dark garden behind the house she suddenly heard unexpected music. It filled the night air as if it had been only waiting for Meggie's footsteps: strange music, a carnival mixture of bells, pipes, and drums, both boisterous and sad. Meggie wouldn't have been surprised to find a whole troupe of fairground entertainers waiting for her on the lawn behind Elinor's house, but only Dustfinger stood there.
    He was waiting where Meggie had found him that afternoon. The music came from a cassette recorder on the grass beside the wooden deck chair. Dustfinger had placed a garden bench on the edge of the lawn for his audience. Lighted torches were stuck into the ground to the right and left of it, and two more were burning on the lawn, casting quivering shadows in the night.
    The shadows danced across the grass like servants conjured up by Dustfinger from some dark world for this occasion. He himself stood there bare-chested, his skin as pale as the moon, which was hanging in the sky right above Elinor's house as if it, too, had turned up especially for Dustfinger's show.
    When Meggie emerged from the darkness Dustfinger bowed to her. "Sit down, pretty lady!" he called over the music. "We were all just waiting for you."
    Shyly, Meggie sat down on the bench and looked around her. The two dark glass bottles she had seen in Dustfinger's bag were standing on the deck chair. Something whitish shimmered in the bottle on the left, as if Dustfinger had filled it with moonlight. A dozen torches with white wadding heads were wedged between the wooden rungs of the chair, and beside the cassette recorder stood a bucket and a large, big-bellied vase, which if Meggie remembered correctly came from Elinor's entrance hall.
    For a moment, she let her eyes wander to the windows of the house. There was no light in Mo's bedroom — he was probably still working — but one floor below Meggie saw Elinor standing at her lighted window. The moment Meggie looked her way she drew the curtain, as if she had felt Meggie watching her, but she still stayed at the window. Her shadow was a dark outline against the pale yellow curtain.
    "Do you hear how quiet it is?" Dustfinger switched off the recorder. The silence of the night fell on Meggie's ears, muffled as if by cotton wool. Not a leaf moved; there was nothing to be heard but the torches crackling and the chirping of the crickets.
    Dustfinger switched the music back on. "I had a private word with the wind," he said. "There's one thing you should know: If the wind takes it into its head to play with fire then even I can't tame the blaze. But it gave me its word of honor to keep still tonight and not spoil our fun."
    So saying, he picked up one of the torches from Elinor's deck chair. He sipped from the bottle with the moonlight in it and spat something whitish out into the big vase. Then he dipped the torch he was holding into the bucket, took it out again, and held its dripping head of wadding to one of its burning