Mo didn't even ask what he was talking about. He drew Meggie close as soon as the guard had bolted the door behind Firefox, kissed her hair, her forehead, took her face between his hands. He had been so sure that he'd seen that face for the last time in the stable in the forest. "Meggie, for God's sake," he said, leaning his back against the cold wall, since he could still hardly stand. He was so glad to see her there. So glad and so dismayed, too. "How did they catch you?"
"Never mind that. Everything will be all right, believe me!" She put her hand on his shirt where there was still dried blood on it. "You looked so sick in the stable… I thought I'd never see you again."
"I thought the same when I found that letter on your pillow." He stroked the tears off her lashes as he had so often done before over the years. How tall she was, hardly a child anymore, although he could still clearly see the child in her. "Oh, heavens, it's so good to see you, Meggie. l know I shouldn't say so. A good father would say: Dear daughter, do you have to get yourself locked up every time I do?"
She had to laugh, but he saw the concern in her eyes. She passed her fingers over his face as if she were finding shadows that hadn't been there before. Perhaps the White Women had left their fingerprints behind, even though they hadn't taken him away with them.
"Don't look at me like that! I'm better, much better, and you know why." He brushed the hair back from her forehead; it was so like her mother's. The thought of Resa hurt like a sharp thorn. "Those were powerful words. Did Fenoglio write them for you?"
Meggie nodded. "And he wrote more for me, too," she whispered in his ear. "Words that will save you. You and Resa and all the others."
Words. His whole life seemed to be woven from words. His life, and his death, too.
"They took your mother and the others to the dungeons under the castle." He remembered Fenoglio's description only too welclass="underline" The dungeons under the Castle of Night, where fear clung to the walls like mold, and no ray of sun ever warmed the black stones.
"Mo?" Meggie put her hand on his shoulder. "Do you think you can work?"
"Work? Why?" He couldn't help smiling, for the first time in a long, long while. "Do you think the Adderhead will forget he wants to hang me if I restore his books for him?"
But he didn't once interrupt as she told him, in a low voice, Fenoglio's idea for rescuing him. He sat on the straw mattress where he had lain these last few days and nights, counting the notches carved in the walls by other unfortunates, and listened to Meggie.
And the more of the story she told, the crazier Fenoglio's plan seemed, but when she had finished Mo shook his head and smiled.
"Not a bad idea!" he said quietly. "No, the old fox is no fool, he knows his story." It's just a pity that Mortola presumably knows the altered version now, too, he added to himself. And that you were interrupted before you had read it to the end. As so often, Meggie seemed to see what he was thinking from his face. He saw it in her eyes. He stroked the bridge of her nose with his forefinger, as he always used to when she was little, so little that her hand could hardly close around his finger. Little Meggie, big Meggie, brave Meggie…
"You're so much braver than I am," he said. "Bargaining with the Adderhead. I'd really have liked to see that."
She put her arms around his neck and stroked his tired face. "You will see it, Mo!" she whispered. "Fenoglio's words always come true, much more so in this world than in our own. They made you well again, didn't they?"
He just nodded. If he had said anything, she would have known from his voice that he found it difficult to believe, as she did, in a happy ending. Even when Meggie was younger she had always known at once if he was troubled in some way, but then it had been easy to take her mind off it with a joke, a pun, a story. It wasn't so simple now. No one could see into Mo's heart as easily as Meggie, except her mother. Resa had the same way of looking at him.
"I expect you've heard why they dragged me here, haven't you?" he asked. "I'm supposed to be a famous robber. Remember when we used to play Robin Hood?"
Meggie nodded. "You always wanted to be Robin."
"And you wanted to be the Sheriff of Nottingham. The baddies are stronger, Mo, you kept telling me. Clever child. Do you know what they call me? You'll like it."
"The Bluejay." Meggie almost whispered the name.
"Yes, exactly. What do you think? I don't suppose there's much hope the real Bluejay will come wanting his name back before my execution, do you?"
How gravely she was looking at him. As if she knew something he didn't.
"There isn't any other Bluejay, Mo," she said quietly. "You are him." Without another word she took his arm, turned up his sleeve, and let her finger trace the scar that Basta's dogs had left. "That wound was just healing when we were in Fenoglio's house. He gave you an ointment to help the scar tissue form better, remember?"
He didn't understand. Not a word. "So?"
"You are the Bluejay!" She repeated it. "No one else. Fenoglio wrote the songs about him. He made him up because he thought his world needed a robber – and he used you as his model! He was a noble robber in my imagination, that's what he wrote to me."
It was some time before Mo's mind could take in the meaning of her words. Suddenly, he had to laugh. So loudly that the guard opened the barred flap in the door and stared in suspiciously. Mo wiped the laugh off his face and stared back until the guard disappeared again, cursing. Then he leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mo," whispered Meggie. "So sorry. Sometimes Fenoglio is a terrible old man!"
"Well, yes."
Perhaps that was why Orpheus had found it so easy to read him here. Because he was already in this story, anyway. "What do you think?" he asked. "Do I feel honored, or do I wring Fenoglio's old neck?"
Meggie put her hand on his forehead. "You're all hot! Lie down. You must rest."
How often had he said the same to her; how many nights had he spent sitting beside her bed? Measles, chicken pox, scarlet fever… "Lord, Meggie," he had groaned when she caught whooping cough, too, "can't you leave out at least one childhood illness?"
The fever was pouring hot lead into his veins, and when Meggie bent over him, he thought for a moment that Resa was sitting beside him. But Meggie's hair was fairer.
"Where are Dustfinger and Farid? They were with you, weren't they? Have they been captured, too?" The fever made his tongue heavy.
"No, I don't think so. Did you know Dustfinger has a wife?"
"Yes, it was because of her that Basta cut his face. Have you met her?"
Meggie nodded. "She's very beautiful. Farid is jealous of her."
"Really? I thought he was in love with you."
She went red, bright red.
"Meggie?" Mo sat up. When on earth was this fever finally going to go away? It made him as weak as an old man. "Oh no!" he said quietly. "I see I've missed something. My daughter falls in love and I fail to notice! One more reason to curse that damned book. You should have stayed with Farid. I'd have been all right."
"You wouldn't! They'd have hanged you!"
"They may yet. The boy must be worried out of his mind about you now. Poor fellow. Has he kissed you?"
"Mo!" She turned her face away, embarrassed, but she was smiling.
"I have to know. I think I even have to give my permission, don't I?"
"Mo, stop it!" She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, as usual when he was teasing her, and was horrified to see his face twist with pain. "Oh, I'm sorry," she whispered.