Inkheart by Cornelia Funke Read Free Book Online

worlds she had never seen before. The temptation was stronger than Meggie's pride.
    "Agreed," she murmured, clasping her hands behind her back. "Three paces." Her fingers were itching with desire.
    "Sensible child," said Elinor, so condescendingly that Meggie almost went back on her decision.
    But then they entered Elinor's holy of holies.
    "You've had the place renovated," Meggie heard Mo say. He added something else, but she wasn't listening anymore. She was just staring at the books. The shelves on which they stood smelled of freshly sawn wood. They went all the way up to a sky-blue ceiling with tiny lights in it, hanging there like stars. Narrow wooden stepladders on casters stood by the shelves, ready to help any reader up to the top shelves. There were reading desks with books lying open on them, held in place by brass chains that shone like gold. There were glass display cases containing books with pages stained by age but showing the most wonderful pictures. Meggie couldn't resist moving closer. One step forward, a quick glance at Elinor, who luckily had her back turned, and she was right beside the display case. She bent lower and lower over the glass until her nose was touching it.
    Prickly leaves twined around pale brown letters. A tiny red dragon's head was spitting out flowers over the stained paper. Riders on white horses looked at Meggie as if scarcely a day had passed since someone had painted them with tiny marten-hair brushes. A man and woman stood beside them, perhaps a bridal couple. A man with a bright red hat was looking angrily at them.
    "You call that three paces?"
    Meggie spun around in alarm, but Elinor didn't seem too angry. "Yes, the art of illumination," she said. "Once only rich people could read, so the pictures painted around the letters were to help 25

    the poor to understand the stories, too. Of course no one planned to give them pleasure — the poor were put into the world to work, not to have a nice time or look at pretty pictures. That kind of thing was only for the rich. No, the idea was to instruct the poor. Usually the stories came from the Bible and everyone knew them anyway. The books were put in churches, and a page was turned every day to show a new picture."
    "What about this book?" asked Meggie.
    "I don't think this one was ever in a church," replied Elinor. "More likely it was made for a very rich man to enjoy. It's almost six hundred years old." There was no missing the pride in her voice. "People have committed murder for such a book. Luckily, I only had to buy it."
    As she spoke these last words she turned abruptly and looked at Dustfinger, who had followed them into the library, soundless as a prowling cat. For a moment Meggie thought Elinor would send him back into the corridor, but Dustfinger stood in front of the shelves looking so impressed, with his hands behind his back, that he gave her no reason to turn him out, so she just cast him a final distrustful glance and turned back to Mo.
    He was standing at one of the reading desks with a book in his hand. Its spine hung only by a couple of threads. He held it very carefully, like a bird with a broken wing.
    "Well?" asked Elinor anxiously. "Can you save it? I know it's in terrible shape, and I'm afraid the others aren't in a much better way, but. ."
    "Oh, that can all be fixed." Mo put the book down and inspected another. "But I think it will take me at least two weeks. If I don't have to get hold of more materials, which could mean I need more time. Will you put up with us that long?"
    "Of course." Elinor nodded, but Meggie noticed the glance she cast at Dustfinger. He was still standing beside the shelves near the door and seemed entirely absorbed in looking at the books, but Meggie sensed he had missed none of what was said behind his back.
    There were no books in Elinor's kitchen, not one, but they ate an excellent supper there at a wooden table that came, so Elinor assured them, from the scriptorium of an Italian