Igraine the Brave by Cornelia Funke

have to introduce to you all!” She turned and led the Sorrowful Knight into the room.
    “This,” she said, “is the Sorrowful Knight of the Mount of Tears. He’s a friend of the giant Garleff, and he very kindly escorted me home. And these,” she added, pointing to Albert and the two pigs, “are my big brother, Albert, and my parents. My parents don’t usually look like that, but I think they’re still nice this way, don’t you?”
    The knight took his helmet off and bowed low to Albert and the two pigs, while the books, full of curiosity, immediately surrounded him.
    “A genuine knight, take a look at that, will you?” said one in its reedy voice.
    “His armor is rather dented,” whispered another book. “Almost as bad as the dents old Pelleas got from falling off his horse all the time.”
    “That helmet could do with a dusting,” commented a third book.
    Rather embarrassed, the Sorrowful Knight cleared his throat.
    “Shut up, will you?” said Igraine, so angrily that the books flinched away. “We haven’t been sitting around on a nice upholstered shelf like you. We’ve rescued a dragon, fought the One-Eyed Duke, and outwitted Osmund’s guards.”
    “Oh, dear me!” groaned the Fair Melisande. “That sounds terrible, honey. And I am very grateful indeed to this noble knight for seeing you safely home.”
    “Yes, to be sure,” snorted Sir Lamorak, pricking up his piggy ears. “That was very kind of you, Sir Sorrowful Knight of … er, the Mount of Tears.”
    The Sorrowful Knight bowed again. “It was an honor,” he replied. “And a pleasure. Your daughter is brave and fearless, and of a most chivalrous cast of mind, even if she and I sometimes don’t see the rules of chivalry in quite the same way.”
    Pleased, Lamorak and Melisande lowered their snouts. “My dear … er, Sorrowful Knight, it makes us very happy to hear that,” said Sir Lamorak, much moved.
    Igraine deeply regretted having taken her helmet off because now, unfortunately, everyone could see her blushing to the roots of her hair. “Bertram told me that Albert’s been foiling all Osmund’s magic tricks,” she quickly said.
    Albert’s expression was one of deliberate modesty. “Well, admittedly I didn’t do badly,” he said.
    “How about the food?” Igraine couldn’t resist. Albert was looking so terribly self-satisfied.
    “Yes, all right, I still have to work on that a bit,” he muttered. “But now I’m going to grate the hairs and then soak them.”
    “Use the condensed dragon’s vapor, my boy!” Sir Lamorak called after him. “It works even better than water-snake saliva. I think we still have a small jar left.”
    The books followed Albert in a long procession as he disappeared into the back room of the workshop — the stirring and boiling room, as Igraine called it.
    Her father put his pink front trotters up on the windowsill and looked out at the night. “I’m really looking forward to turning that Osmund into a shape that suits him better,” he said. “What do you think, honey, would a cockroach fit the bill, or would one of those fish that wallow in the mud be better?”
    “I’ll have to think about that,” said Igraine. “But first I want to hear what’s been going on here while I was away.”
    “Oh, nothing much,” replied her mother, nudging her lovingly with her snout. “Osmund is a terrible bore with his threats and his rather second-rate magic, and he’s spoiling our view with all those tents. The noise is rather a nuisance at times, too. Yesterday he tried making the castle fall down by rather inexpertly casting an earthquake spell. The tower wobbled a bit, and four gargoyles lost their noses, but otherwise nothing happened. The man’s a fool. He’d do terrible damage with our books.”
    “He certainly would,” agreed Sir Lamorak. “And your brother is acquitting himself bravely, but it’s high time we got our own magic powers back so that we can put an end to all this