Three days once again. Mo had been gone with the White Women for that long as well three endless days that had made Meggie believe her father was dead beyond recall this time, and it was her mother’s fault. And Farid’s, too. She hadn’t exchanged a single word with either of them during those three days, and when Resa approached her she had pushed her away.
"Meggie, why are you looking at your mother like that?" Mo had asked her on the first day after his return. Why? The White Women took you away because of her, she wanted to say, and then didn’t. She knew she was being unfair, but the coolness between her and Resa was still there. She couldn’t forgive Farid, either.
He was standing beside Dustfinger and was the only one who didn’t look depressed.
Of course. Why would Farid care that her father was about to hand himself over to the Piper? Dustfinger was back. Nothing else counted. He had tried to make up their quarrel. "Come on, Meggie. No harm came to your father—and he brought Dustfinger back!" Yes, that was all that interested him. And all that ever would.
Jasper had let sealing wax drop onto the parchment, and Mo pressed his stamp on it, the one he’d carved for the book of Resa’s drawings. A unicorn’s head. The bookbinder’s seal for the robber’s promise. Mo gave Dustfinger the letter, exchanged a few words with Resa and the Black Prince, and came over to Meggie.
When she was still so small that she stood no higher than his elbow, she would often push her head under his arm when something scared her. But that was long ago.
"What does Death look like, Mo?" she had asked. "Did you really see Death himself?" The memory didn’t seem to frighten him, but his eyes had immediately wandered far, far away. "Death has many shapes, but the voice of a woman." "A woman?" Meggie had asked in surprise. "But Fenoglio would never give a woman such a big part in his story!"
And Mo had laughed and replied, "I don’t think it was Fenoglio who wrote Death’s part, Meggie."
She wouldn’t look up at him when he stopped in front of her. "Meggie?" He put his hand under her chin so that she had to meet his eyes. "Don’t look so sad. Please!"
Behind him, the Black Prince took Battista and Doria aside. She could imagine what instructions he had for them. He was sending them to Ombra, to spread the news among the desperate mothers there that the Bluejay would not let down their stolen children But what about his own daughter? Meggie thought, and Was sure that Mo saw the accusation in her eyes.
Without a word, he took her hand and drew her away from the tents, away from the robbers, and away from Resa, who was still standing by the fire. She was wiping the ink from her fingers, wiping and wiping, while Jasper watched sympathetically. It was as if she were trying to wipe away the words she had written.
Mo stopped under one of the oak trees. Their branches stretched above the camp like a sky made of wood and yellowing leaves. He held Meggie’s hand and ran his forefinger over it as if he were surprised to find how large it was now — yet her hands were still so much slimmer than his. A girl’s hands. . .
"The Piper will kill you."
"No, he won’t. But if he tries I’ll be happy to show him how sharp a bookbinder’s knife is. Battista is going to sew me a place to hide a knife again, and believe me, I’ll be very happy if that child-murderer gives me an opportunity to try it out on him."
Hatred fell over his face like a shadow. The Bluejay.
"The knife won’t be any help. He’ll kill you just the same. She sounded stupid. Like a defiant child. But she was so afraid for him.
"Three children are dead, Meggie. Go to Doria and ask him to tell you again how they herded them together. They’ll kill them all if the Bluejay doesn’t give himself up!"
The Bluejay. He sounded as if he meant someone else. How dim did he think she was?
"It’s not your story, Mo! Let the Black Prince save the children."