And I helped him to disappear into it again, but what about me? Hopeless.” He laughed, a sad and bitter laugh. “I just hope he doesn’t have to die the death that idiot of an author intended for him.
No, he can’t! He’ll be all right, I’m sure he will. After all, Capricorn is dead and Basta’s a coward.
Do you know, I wrote to that Fenoglio, the author, when I was twelve, telling him he must change his story, or at least write a sequel in which Dustfinger comes back? He never answered my letter, any more than Inkheart ever had a sequel. Oh well.” Orpheus sighed deeply.
Dustfinger, Dustfinger . . Elinor compressed her lips. Who cared what happened to the matchstick-eater? Keep calm, Elinor, don’t go off the deep end again, you must be clever now, clever, go carefully. . Easier said than done.
“Listen, if you’d like to be in that book so much” – and this time she really did manage to make her voice sound as if what she was saying didn’t matter all that much to her – “then why not just bring Meggie back? She knows how you can read yourself into a story. She’s done it! I’m sure she can tell you how to do it or read you over there, too.”
Orpheus’s round face darkened so suddenly that Elinor immediately knew she had made a bad mistake. How could she have forgotten what a vain, conceited creature he was?
“No one,” said Orpheus softly, rising slowly and menacingly from her chair, “no one can tell me anything about the art of reading. Certainly not a little girl!”
Now he’ll put you straight back in the cellar, thought Elinor. What am I going to do? Think, Elinor, try to find the right answer in your silly head! Do something! Surely you can think up something!
“Oh, of course not!” she stammered. “No one but you could have read Dustfinger back. No one.
But –”
“No buts. You watch out.” Orpheus posed as if he were about to sing an aria onstage and picked up the book lying on the chair where he had so carelessly put it down. He opened it right where the dog-ear disfigured the creamy white page, ran the tip of his tongue over his lips as if he had to smooth them so that the words would flow freely – and then his voice filled Elinor’s library again, the captivating voice that did not suit his outward appearance in the least. Orpheus read as if he were letting his favourite food melt in his mouth, relishing it, greedy for the sound of the letters, pearls melting on his tongue, words like seeds from which he was making life emerge.
Perhaps he really was the greatest master ever of his art. He certainly practiced it with the utmost passion.
“There is a tale of a certain shepherd, Tudur of Llangollen, who came across a troop of faeries, dancing to the tune of a tiny fiddler.” A faint chirping sound arose behind Elinor, but when she turned around there was no one to be seen but Sugar, listening to Orpheus’s voice with a bewildered expression on his face. ” Tudur tried to resist the enchanting strains, but finally, throwing his cap in the air and shouting, ‘Now for it, then, play away, old devil!’ he joined in. ”
The fiddling grew shriller and shriller, and when Elinor turned around this time she saw a man standing in her library, surrounded by small creatures dressed in leaves and prancing around on his bare feet like a dancing bear, while a step or so away a tiny little thing with a bellflower on its head was playing a fiddle hardly larger than an acorn.
“Immediately, a pair of horns appeared on the fiddler’s head and a tail sprouted from beneath his coat!” Orpheus let his voice swell until he was almost singing. ” The dancing sprites turned into goats, dogs, cats, and foxes, and they and Tudur spun around in a dizzying frenzy. ”
Elinor pressed her hands to her mouth. There they were, emerging from behind the armchair, leaping over the stacks of books, dancing on the open pages with their muddy hooves. The dog jumped up and barked at them.
“Stop it!” Elinor cried to Orpheus. “Stop it at once!” He closed the book with a triumphant smile.