My skin shuddered with recognition. That was my name! The dragon was addressing me personally, just as it had appealed to Coster's granddaughter several years before. My hands began to shake.
Even now, I could see other words, other messages, appearing in the sheets of paper that were unfolding in my fingers. Pockets of parchment opened at random, each disclosing a hidden doorway to wisdom, a miniature book. It was more wonderful than anything I had imagined — much faster than Herr Gutenberg's press. Whole kingdoms rose and fell within a few pages, leaving behind their legacies of words. I wanted to follow each new path, each staircase of paper, to find out where they would lead, but all of a sudden my elation turned to fear.
Like a shadow passing into the room behind me, a suspicion entered my mind. Wasn't this exactly what Fust had wanted all along? The answers to the world's mysteries laid out before him like an open book? Still more words were appearing on the magic parchment, bleeding through the skin, spreading into the contents of the chest. They were unstoppable!
Instantly, I recognized the error of my ways. I had opened a vast florilegium of knowledge — a book of books without any conceivable end. How could I close it again?
A breath of night air stole into the room and brushed against the back of my neck. The door downstairs had opened and two sets of footsteps — not one — approached. Peter was not alone. Fust had returned with him.
Terrified, I tightened my grip on the paper. As if in response, the expanding sheet in my hand began to diminish rapidly in size, folding itself into smaller and smaller compartments. The immense wing of paper was soon no more than a booklet — al section of paper that fitted easily in the palm of my hand.
Grabbing my toolkit, I hastily remove its contents and stuffed the wad of paper inside, wrapping the leather straps around it as quickly and tightly as possible to form a secure bundle, hoping to keep at least the top layers of enchanted dragon skin from Fust's possession.
Miraculously, the words in the rest of the paper began to halt, as if frozen. Like shadows beneath ice, they were just visible against the whiteness of the paper, but virtually indecipherable. Perhaps these lower reams of paper would be incapable of releasing their power without the top layers to complete them? Perhaps I could still put things right? I had to hope so.
Fust had almost arrived.
Quickly, I closed the lid of the chest, leaving it as I had found it, and then as quietly as possible picked up the loose tools from the floor and trotted across the room towards the stairs, the booklet of paper concealed beneath my linen nightshirt. The fire had died to a red glow.
I could feel Fust's eyes hunting for me in the dark, but I was already on the stairs, hurrying back to the dormitory and my fate — a thief, once again.
8
Blake rubbed his brow and reached for his watch, wondering what time it was. He knew he'd overslept; he just wasn't sure for how long.
His heart rang out in alarm. It was more than two hours after he was supposed to get up! His mother would be furious.
Jolted awake, he scurried into the clothes he had left on the floor and tried desperately to think of an excuse to tell her.
He'd had so many strange dreams. He couldn't remember them all, but weird images had flitted through his mind all night like a nightmarish picture book come to life. In one, voracious goblins had escaped from their pages and were attempting to devour books in a library he had never seen before. They had greedy, gluttonous faces with beastly teeth — like sharp, red pomegranate seeds — which they used to shred paper and pulverize words. He shivered at the recollections, wondering where they had come from.
The house seemed disconcertingly quiet and he crept down the stairs like an intruder, careful not to make a sound. There was no sign of his mother or sister anywhere. The kitchen was empty and even the regular clutter of cereal boxes on the dining-room table, which he and Duck used to build a wall so they didn't have to look at each other, had been cleared away.
A note on the table confirmed his suspicions.
9:25 a.m.
Gone to college. Meet us for lunch (if you're up)
Duck had added her own postscript in lopsided writing:
PS Sleepyhead We NEED to talk.
Blake tore the note into tiny strips and tossed them in a bin under the kitchen sink. He wasn't going to talk to his sister about anything. She was just being nosy as usual. But it was harder to know how to deal with his mother. There was no 'Good morning, Blake,' or 'I love you, Mum' to lift his spirits. It was the shortest possible note — a continuation of the silent treatment from the night before. He would have to make sure he arrived early for lunch to avoid further trouble.
A that moment, the letter box in the front door slapped open and shut.
Blake looked behind him, surprised. Apart from a few flyers, mostly for Indian takeaways, nothing had been sent to them at
He stepped into the hall, wondering if his father had finally written him a letter, and came to an abrupt halt. A piece of bright red cloth lay on the mat just inside the door. It had been tied so as to form a small pouch, the ends drawn together and secured with a tight knot. Attached to it was a little note, written in wobbly letters on a piece of torn paper, which read: 'To the Boy of the House.'
Blake gulped. Immediately, he glanced at the door, but all he could see was a tiny moon of glass shining above the latch: a peephole. He checked it. No one was there.
Just to make sure, he unlocked the door and stepped outside.
An oily drizzle was falling, turning the leaves on the path to a slippery mulch. A damp autumnal smell filled the air. But apart from a hardy jogger crossing the road towards the river, a few blocks away,
Blake rubbed his arms to ward off the chill, then closed the door and bolted it firmly behind him.
He tapped the cloth lightly with his foot. Nothing stirred inside it.
A funny smell had now reached him: a muddy, furry scent that made the insides of his nose twinge. The beginnings of a sneeze teased his nostrils. It smelled like a wild animal.
And then the answer struck him. The cloth belonged to the dog he had seen outside the bookshop. It was its red bandanna!
Quickly, he bent down to pick it up. It was incredibly light. In fact, he wondered if there was anything wrapped up in the cloth at all. The bandanna felt suspiciously empty.
