Inkdeath by Cornelia Funke

were no more natural occupation for the human hand than writing, and then the pictures. Living, breathing parchment!

    "I’ll talk to people where and when I like! I’m the Adderhead’s grandson!" Jacopo’s voice was shrill. "I’m going to tell my uncle how impertinent you’ve been again. I’m going to tell him this minute! I’ll say he ought to take all your brushes away from you!" With One last glance at Balbulus he turned. "Come on, Tullio. Or I’ll shut you in with the hounds!"

    The little servant went to Jacopo’s side, head hunched between his Shoulders, and the Adderhead’s grandson inspected Mo again from head to foot before turning and hurrying down the stairs again suddenly just a child after all, in a hurry to see a show.

    "We ought to get out, Mortimer!" Fenoglio whispered to him. "You should never have come to this place! Sootbird is here. It’s not good, not good at all."

    But Balbulus was already impatiently beckoning the new bookbinder into his workshop. What did Mo care about Sootbird? He could think of nothing but what awaited him behind the door with the silver letters all over it.

    He had spent so many hours of his life poring over the art of illumination, bending close to stained pages until his back ached, following every brushstroke with a magnifying glass and wondering how such marvels could be captured on parchment.
    All the tiny faces, all the fantastic creatures, landscapes, flowers, miniature dragons, insects, so real that they seemed to be crawling off the pages. Letters as artfully entwined as if their lines had begun to grow only on that parchment.

    Was all that waiting for him on the desks in there?

    Maybe. But Balbulus stood in front of his work as if he were its guardian, and his eyes were so expressionless that Mo wondered how a man who bent so cold a gaze on the world could paint such pictures. Pictures so full of strength and fire.

    "Inkweaver." Balbulus nodded to Fenoglio with a look that seemed to sum him up: the unshaven chin, the bloodshot eyes, the weariness in the old man’s heart. And what, Mo wondered, will he see in me?

    "So you’re the bookbinder?" Balbulus inspected him as thoroughly as if he planned to capture him on parchment. "Fenoglio tells me truly wonderful things about your skill."

    "Oh, does he?" Mo couldn’t help sounding distracted. He wanted to see those pictures at long last, but once again the illuminator barred his way as if by chance.
    What did this mean? Let me see your work, thought Mo. You ought to feel flattered that I’ve risked my neck to come here for its sake. Good heavens, those brushes really were incredibly fine. And then there were the paints. . . .

    Fenoglio dug a warning elbow into his ribs, and Mo reluctantly tore himself away from the sight of all these wonders and looked into Balbulus’s expressionless eyes.

    "I’m sorry. Yes, I’m a bookbinder, and I am sure you will want to see a sample of my work. I didn’t have particularly good materials available, but. . ." He put his hand under the cloak that Battista had made (stealing so much black fabric couldn’t have been easy), but Balbulus shook his head.

    "You don’t have to show me any evidence of what you can do," he said, never taking his eyes off Mo. "Taddeo, the librarian in the Castle of Night, has told me at length how impressively you proved your abilities there."

    Lost.

    He was lost.

    Mo sensed Fenoglio’s appalled glance on him. Yes, look at me, he thought. Are the words "reckless idiot" written as black as ink on my fore head ?

    However, Balbulus smiled. His smile was as hard to fathom as his eyes.

    "Yes, Taddeo has told me about you at length." Meggie had given a good imitation of the way his tongue touched his teeth as he spoke. "Usually he is rather a reserved man, but he positively Sung your praises to me in writing. After all, there aren’t many of Your trade who can bind Death itself in a book, are there?"

    Fenoglio gripped his arm so hard