Fenoglio smiled and put his hand to the bag at his belt. "I've brought you something."
Violante's fingers closed greedily on the red stone. Her hands were small and rounded like a child's. She quickly reopened the book she had hidden behind her back and held the beryl up to one of her eyes.
"Come on, Brianna, or I'll tell them to cut off your hair!" Jacopo took a handful of the maid's hair and pulled it so hard that she screamed. "That's what my grandfather does. He shaves them bald, the minstrel girls and the women who live in the forest. He says they turn into owls by night and screech outside your windows till you're dead in your bed."
"Don't look at me like that!" Fenoglio whispered to Meggie. "I didn't invent this little horror. Here, Jacopo!" He dug his elbow imperatively into Farid's ribs as Brianna went on trying to free her hair from the child's small fingers. "Look, I've brought someone to see you."
Jacopo let go of Brianna's hair and examined Farid with little enthusiasm. "He doesn't have a sword," he pointed out.
"A sword! Who needs a sword?" Fenoglio wrinkled his nose. "Farid is a fire-eater."
Brianna raised her head and looked at Farid. But Jacopo was still inspecting him as unenthusiastically as ever.
"Oh, this stone is wonderful!" his mother murmured. "My old one wasn't half so good. I can make them all out, Brianna, every character. Did I ever tell you how my mother taught me to read by making up a little song for each letter?" She began to chant quietly: "A brown bear bites off a big bit of B… I didn't see particularly well even then, but she traced them on the floor very large for me, laying them out with flower petals or little stones. A, B, C, the minstrel plays for me."
"No," said Brianna. "No, you never told me."
Jacopo was still staring at Farid. "He was at my party!" he said. "He threw torches."
"That was nothing, just a children's game." Farid was looking patronizingly at the boy, as if he himself and not Jacopo were the prince's son. "I can do other tricks, too, but I don't think you're old enough for them."
Meggie saw Brianna hide a smile as she took the comb out of her pale red hair and pinned it up again. She did it very prettily. Farid was watching her, and for the first time in her life Meggie wished that she had such lovely hair, although she wasn't sure that she could manage to put a comb in it so gracefully. Luckily, Jacopo attracted Farid's attention again by clearing his throat and folding his arms. He had probably copied the mannerism from his grandfather.
"Show me or I'll have you whipped." The threat sounded ridiculous, uttered in such a shrill voice – yet at the same time it was more terrible than if it had come from an adult mouth.
"Oh, will you?" Farid's face gave nothing away. He had obviously learned a thing or two from Dustfinger. "And what do you think I'd do to you then?"
This left Jacopo speechless, but just as he was about to appeal to his mother for support Farid reached out his hand to the boy. "Very well, come along, then."
Jacopo hesitated, and for a moment Meggie was tempted to take Farid's hand herself and follow him into the courtyard, instead of listening to Fenoglio trying to follow a dead man's trail, but Jacopo moved faster. His pale, stubby fingers gripped Farid's brown hand tightly, and when he turned in the doorway his face was that of a happy, perfectly ordinary little boy. "He's going to show me tricks, did you hear?" he said proudly, but his mother didn't even look up.
"Oh, what a wonderful stone," was all she whispered. "If only it wasn't red, if only I had one for each eye -"
"Well, I'm working on a way around that, but I'm afraid I haven't found the right glassmaker yet." With a sigh, Fenoglio dropped into one of the chairs invitingly arranged among the reading desks. They all bore the old coat of arms on their leather upholstery, the one where the lion was not shedding tears, and the leather of some was so worn that you could clearly tell how many hours the Laughing Prince had once spent here – until grief sapped his pleasure in books.
"A glassmaker? Why a glassmaker?" Violante gazed at Fenoglio through the beryl. It looked almost as if her eye was made of fire.
"Glass can be ground to make your eyes see better, much better than through a stone, but there isn't a glazier in Ombra who knows what I'm talking about!"
"Oh, I know, only the stonemasons are good for anything in this place! Balbulus says there's not a single decent bookbinder in all Lombrica."
I could tell you the name of a good one, thought Meggie instinctively, and for a moment she wished Mo were here, so much that it hurt. But Her Ugliness was looking at her book again. "There are good glaziers in my father's realm," she said, without glancing up. "He's had several windows in his castle filled in with glass. He had to sell off a hundred of his peasants to go for soldiers to pay for it." Violante seemed to consider the price well worth paying.
I don't think I like her, thought Meggie, as she went slowly from desk to desk. The bindings of the books lying on them were beautiful, and she would have loved to hide at least one of them under her dress, so that she could look at it in Fenoglio's room at her leisure, but the chips holding the chains in place were firmly riveted to the wooden covers of the books.
"You're welcome to look at them." Her Ugliness spoke to Meggie so suddenly that she jumped. Violante was still holding the red stone up to her eye, and Meggie was reminded of the bloodred jewels at the corners of the Adderhead's nostrils. His daughter resembled her father more than she probably knew.
"Thank you," murmured Meggie, and opened one. She remembered the day when Mo had shown her how to open an old book without using her fingers. He had handed her a book with two brass clasps holding its wooden covers together. She had looked at him, baffled, and then, smiling at her, he had struck the front of the book with his fist so hard that the clasps snapped open like little mouths, and the book was opened as if by a ghostly hand.
But the book that Meggie opened in the Laughing Prince's library showed no sign of age, as that other book had done. No speck of mold disfigured the parchment, no beetles or bookworms had nibbled it, like some of the manuscripts she had seen when Mo restored them. The years were not kind to parchment and paper; a book had many enemies, and in time it withered like a human body. "Which tells us, Meggie," Mo always said, "that a book is a living thing!" If only she could have shown him this one!
Very, very carefully she turned the pages – yet her mind was not entirely on what she was doing, for the wind blew Farid's voice into the room like the memory of another world. Meggie listened to what was going on outside as she snapped shut the clasps of the book again. Fenoglio and Violante were still talking about useless bookbinders. Neither of them was taking any notice of her, and Meggie stole over to one of the darkened windows and peered through the gap in the curtains. Her glance fell on a walled garden, beds full of brightly colored flowers, and Farid standing among them letting flames lick their way up his bare arms, just as Dustfinger had done the first time Meggie saw him breathing fire back in Elinor's garden, before he betrayed her…
Jacopo was laughing exuberantly. He clapped – and then stumbled back in alarm as Farid sent the torches whirling through the air like Catherine wheels. Meggie couldn't help smiling; Dustfinger had certainly taught him a lot, even if Farid couldn't yet breathe fire quite so high in the air as his teacher.
"Books? No, I told you, Cosimo never came in here!" Violante's voice suddenly sounded considerably sharper, and Meggie turned around. "He thought nothing of books, he loved dogs, good boots, a fast horse… there were days when he even loved his son. But I don't want to talk about him."