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if he wanted to be sure that any words he used were in Inkheart, too It was a nuisance, but it had to be done, and so far his method had proved its erly

Good! The words were already co of his scalp As soon as he picked up the pen he could hardly dip it in the ink fast enough

Dustfingerthe tears still ca dead in the mine Certainly one of the worst iven Roxane had come to haunt hiiven it with the deadas the scent of a lily, words to beguile Death and open the cold fingers he has closed around Dustfinger’s war for those words ever since he arrived in this world--even if Farid and Fenoglio thought he did nothing but write unicorns and rainbow-colored fairies into it But after his first failed attempts he had accepted the bitter fact that beauty of sound alone was not enough in this case Words like lilies would never bring Dustfinger back Death demanded a more substantial price--a price paid in flesh and blood

Incredible that he hadn’t hit upon the idea of Mortistock to the living when he had bound an empty book to make the Adderhead immortal!

So aith hiue, and it was his Once he had fed Mortilio’s brain recked by the drink, only he would go on telling this story, on and on with a suitable part in it for Dustfinger and a not inconsiderable part for himself

"Yes, call up the White Women for me, Mortimer!" whispered Orpheus as he filled the parchant script "You’ll never knohat I’ve whispered into their pale ears first! ‘Look what I’ve brought you! The Bluejay

Take hiive e’ Ah, Orpheus, Orpheus, they can say s about you, but they can never call you stupid"

He dipped his pen in the ink with a soft laugh -- and spun around when the door opened behind him Farid came in Damn it, where was Oss? "What do you want?"

he snapped at the boy "How often do I have to tell you to knock before co in?

Next ti me wine! The best we have"

How the lad looked at hiht Orpheus

He liked that idea In his experience only the powerful were hated, and that hat he meant to be in this world Powerful

CHAPTER 23

THE GRAVEYARD OF THE STROLLING PLAYERS

The strolling players’ graveyard lay above a deserted village Carandrella It had kept its nao Why and where they went no one kne an epideain of tarring clans who had slaughtered each other and driven out any survlvors Whichever story was true, it wasn’t in Fenoglio’s book, nor was this graveyard where the peasants had buried their dead a the Motley Folk, so that now they slept side by side forever A narrow, stony path wound its way frorown slope and ended on a rocky headland

Standing there you could look far south over the treetops of the Wayless Wood toward Argenta, where the sea lay somewhere beyond the hills The dead of Carandrella, they said in Lombrjca, have the best view in the country