He reached out a hand and switched off his bedside light, then slowly settled back in bed. The sound of the storm lashing outside the window began to lull him to sleep.
Through half-closed eyes, he peered at the window. He could hear rain tapping against the glass like restive fingers and saw a tree swaying rhythmically in the wind at the foot of the garden. He watched it for a while, mesmerized by its movements. Gilded by street lamps, the leaves shook and shimmered — like a golden dragon preening itself in the wind.
He smiled to himself. Yes, there could be a dragon in that tree, he thought sleepily, his eyes closing still further. He could see its outline beginning to take shape: pointy leaflike ears; horny snout; strong black wings, furled back like branches. Each leaf could be a scale and that black space, there, an eye. There was even a thin, plated tail descending from the lowest branches like a sprig of ivy.
Yes, there could be a dragon in that tree, preparing to spread its wings and fly away. It stretched and tossed and groomed itself in the wind. At any moment, it might breathe a jet of autumnal fire and soar into the sky.
But before he knew for certain, he was asleep.
I awoke from an uneasy slumber.
Peter lay on his back beside me, his hands cupped thoughtfully across his chest. Sculpted by the moonlight, he resembled one of the figures entombed in the cathedral on the opposite side of the city, a model of calm and repose. Yet, despite his outward composure, his mind was a hive of activity, busily concocting a plan to get me — and the dragon skin — as far away from Mainz as possible.
We could hear Fust prowling like an animal downstairs, riffling through the contents of the chest, which I had opened a short time earlier. I wondered if he'd found the dormant words written in my blood.
'You don't realize what you've done,' grumbled Peter at last, filling the room with a menacing rumble of words like thunder.
I pretended to sleep, but he thumped me in the small of the back. I turned over and was surprised to find that his eyes were moist with tears. He was genuinely afraid, but whether for my well-being or his own, I could not tell.
'There'll be no stopping him. You — the paper, whatever you've done to it — you've ruined everything. You're not safe.'
I looked at him, frightened.
'Fust knows,' he said. 'He cant see the words properly yet, but they're there; he's sure of it. He says you've done something to prevent the skin from unleashing its potential. But he'll figure it out soon, believe you me. And then you'll be in danger. We all will.'
He was silent for a moment, as if considering the awful truth he had to say. 'It's not only the knowledge he's after, but the power. He wants to be like God and will side with the Devil until he gets there. Nothing will stand in his way. Not even me.'
I could hear the hurt and disillusionment in his voice and realized that he, too, had been duped. Fust had used him. He had feigned his sudden fit of fever to get Peter out of the room, so that I would creep out of my hiding place and unlock the chest. He had known that I was there all along and had carefully shown me what to do. It had been a test and I had walked right into it — like a fool!
'You'll have to leave,' said Peter then, using the words I least wanted to hear. I cringed at the thought. I didn't want to be orphaned yet again.
Peter could read the helpless appeal in my eyes. 'You have no idea what Fust will do,' he tried to convince me. 'He'll use other children — not just you — to release the words in the paper…if that's what it takes. Anything to achieve power. You must go and take the whole damned skin with you! It's the only solution.'
I was trembling now — and not just from cold.
Unable to lie still, I got up and crept over to the dormitory window, which was set high in the wall. I stood on a stool and gazed out over the peaceful, sleeping city. Even though spring had arrived, a trace of winter still silvered the tops of the surrounding houses at night. Roofs sloped towards the cathedral like frosty waves rearing against a cliff. Mainz, I realized, had always been my home. I had no desire to leave it.
'The dragon skin can be neither burned nor destroyed,' said Peter, musing aloud. 'He's shown us that much already. So we need to hide it somewhere Fust will never go, somewhere he can't follow. But where?'
I glanced back at Peter, who was staring up at the joists of the ceiling. He noticed me watching him, shivering in my nightshirt, and in sympathy lifted the covers to allow me close. I tiptoed back to the bed and huddled next to his warm, protective body. He had become a brother to me.
'I'll help Herr Gutenberg with the Bible,' he promised, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders and rolling on his side, 'but you must leave, the sooner the better. We'll figure out where. Perhaps after Frankfurt…Until then, I'll protect you.'
He yawned. Despite my predicament, he could not keep his eyes open and was soon asleep, leaving me even more worried and desolate than before. I listened to the sound of his breathing, which rose and fell in steady waves. Even now, he was drifting into another world, a land of dreams, where I could not follow.
Peter had Christina. Herr Gutenberg had the press. Where, I wondered, did this leave me?
To comfort myself, I reached out to make sure that the toolkit was safe beneath the straw mattress, where I had concealed it a short while ago. A judder passed through me as my fingers once again brushed against the snow-soft sheets of dragon-skin. I was soothed by a momentary feeling of calm.
What I didn't realize was that the skin was already preparing itself for the long journey ahead. The paper was slowly stitching itself into the leather cover of my toolkit and another set of dragon's claws was magically coiling round the front edges of the bundle like a lock, guarding its precious secret.
I had opened a book that could not be closed, started a story that had no obvious conclusion. It was a tale in which I wanted to play no part. Yet Peter was right: I had to go.
The only question was…where?
The answer came a few days later.
Frankfurt was teeming with people. Heavy boats lay at anchor in the choppy river, bringing merchants from far abroad, while traders and journeymen thronged the muddy roads leading to the city walls and blocked the gates with their wagons and carts. Weighed down with bundles of wood and straw, peasants and artisans trudged across the bridge from the surrounding countryside to set up stalls in the cobbled squares. Oblivious to it all, clergymen and patricians waded through the streets like dainty birds among the common sparrows, showing off their finery.
Peter gazed at them longingly. 'One day, I shall be able to afford a cloak like that,' he whispered as a wealthy nobleman strolled past in a bright green robe trimmed with rabbit fur.
Everywhere, people flocked towards the Town Hall — a string of tall gabled buildings in the old quarter, close to the market. Banners and pennants flapped from the walls and bells clanged in the spires in a joyous celebration, summoning pilgrims to church before letting them loose on the fair.
Downstairs, in the large stone hall, goldsmiths, silversmiths and craftsmen of every description were preparing their booths. Among the displays of Bohemian glass, Italian oils and Flemish cloth were brooches, rings and salt cellars wrought from the finest metals. The selection was astounding. I had never seen such riches.
Peter loitered by the drapers' stalls, looking like a smitten lover as he trailed his fingers along the bales of linen, brocade and silk. A purse of crushed crimson velvet eventually took his fancy — a present for Christina — and he stroked it like an exotic animal before finally parting with the coins to buy it. It cost nearly everything he had.
'That must prove I love her,' he remarked as I strolled past.
I preferred the aromas wafting from the far reaches of the hall and wandered over to the savory corner where
