“But how can books protect things?” Peter asked.
“These are no ordinary books, Peter. For when they are brought together, they possess the power to summon those same entries into the world.”
Sophie recalled the words from the inscription. “‘Impossible things of all shape and kind,’” she said, “‘flow from the will of a curious mind.’” Sophie stared at the book in her arms. Her mother’s name was inside of it. What would happen if she summoned that entry?
Professor Cake cleared his throat in a way that sounded very much like a rebuke. “The Four Questions are not to be used lightly. They are an ancient weapon in a battle that has been raging since the beginning of time—a fight over the very nature of the universe. A battle between questions and answers, between What if and What is, between imagination and information, wonder and doubt. Or, as your Inquisitor Prigg puts it: between nonsense and common sense.”
“Which side are you on, Professor?”
The old man gave a tight smile. “The losing side, I’m afraid.” He peered out at the rows of shelves, so many of them empty. “When The Book of Who appeared in my library, I recognized it for what it was, and I hoped that—if a new Storyguard could be found and the Four Questions assembled—there might be a chance to reverse the tide.”
“So you knew that the book would pick me to be its Storyguard?”
He shook his head. “I have known a number of Storyguard in my years, and they are all of them unique but for one trait: They understand that stories are more than the sum of their words. Indeed, many of them love stories beyond their own lives. Which probably explains why most Storyguard are killed in the line of duty.”
Sophie lowered her head. These words triggered a swill of dread that she had been keeping at bay. “The line of duty,” she said. “Is that how my mother died?”
The Professor placed a wrinkled hand atop hers. “I do not know for certain. But I suspect that finding these books will reveal the truth. Historically there are four Storyguard at any given time, one protecting each book. They often live in secret, occupying the farthest corners of the map—from the deserts to the tundra to the ocean and everywhere in between. Even I do not know who or where they all are. What I do know is that when the world lost your mother twelve years ago, the others seemed to disappear with her. The world hasn’t seen the other Storyguard or their books since.”
Sophie held The Book of Who close. “If this was my mother’s book, how did you get it?”
“She gave it to me . . . more or less.” He tapped the bookcase that looked into Sophie’s shop. “I found it on the floor of my library the same night she died, lying in front of this very bookcase. Your mother had somehow pushed it through her shelf and into my library—I’ve never seen anything like it.” He looked at Sophie. “I’ve been keeping it safe ever since.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Sophie clutched the book even closer to her chest. “When Peter gave the book to me, it was covered with roots and grime and all manner of decay—it looked like it had been buried for a hundred years.”
Professor Cake nodded, leaning on his cane. “Ah, yes, well, I knew this book was very precious, and I couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands. And so I made sure the only person who could open it was someone who deserved it.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “You put those things on it to test me?”
Peter gave a chuckle. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” He had himself endured a very similar “test” at the hands of the Professor two years earlier.
“I’m pleased to see that you have your mother’s touch,” Professor Cake said. “Apparently The Book of Who was similarly impressed.”
Sophie thought of what her father had told her about how he had found her mother’s body—facedown on the floor not five feet from where Sophie was standing now. “If you found The Book of Who inside your library—that means giving it to you was the last thing my mother did before she died.”
He nodded. “It would seem so.”
Sophie looked own at The Book of Who, which she could almost feel breathing in her arms. “And if I can find the other books . . . they might even lead me to her killer.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STUFF and NONSENSE
Inquisitor Prigg stepped over the splintered wreckage that had once been the front door of the small curiosity shop. And by small, he meant actually tiny. His taller soldiers had been forced to crawl on their hands and knees just to get through the door. “Stuff and nonsense,” he muttered, his voice thick with disgust.
Bright puddles of liquid fizzled and sputtered on the ground, releasing all manner of noxious odors. Manikin dragons and windup toys rapped against their glass cages, trying to get out. Prigg stopped before a singing orchid that had fallen onto the ground, its clay pot shattered. The flower emitted a faint, lovely song that was known the world over as a perfect cure for melancholy. Prigg listened for a moment, then lowered his heel onto the blossom, crushing it flat.
He turned around to address the man who had led him to this place, a salty carriage driver from Olde Town. “And when, exactly,” Prigg said, “did this altercation occur?”
“Exactly is a bit tricky, sir,” the driver said. “I own no watch, but it was well past midnight, if the moon be any judge. I was driving a fare down the road when we were attacked by highwaymen. Well, more of a highwayboy, really. He had a pet with him, the ugliest cat I ever did see—and it could talk, too.” He opened his eyes wide. “Terrible nonsense, they was. There was a scuffle, and they stole my horse and rode her to this place. I’d have never found her again if it weren’t for all the lights and explosions.” He scratched his head. “Tell you honest, I been taking fares up and down these roads for years and never even knew this village existed.”
“That’s because this village was hiding,” Prigg said. Little Whence was a knomish village, if the diminutive buildings were any indication. The owner of the shop had surely fled by now. As had the rest of the town’s inhabitants. Doors had been left open, fires still smoldering in the kitchens, stables and larders half-filled. He smiled at the thought of their undoubtedly hasty flight. The very sight of Bustleburgh guards on the march had been enough to scatter these disgusting creatures to the farthest corners of the Grimmwald.
Prigg looked at the man. “May I ask who you were transporting through such treacherous roads at such a late hour?”
The driver blushed. “A fine lady, sir. As lovely as a hot meal on a cold day. Skin like fresh cream from the pail, and eyes so bright they’d have shamed the moon.” He sighed, his own eyes looking glassy with stupidity. “One word from her lips was like—”
“Spare me,” Prigg said. The driver was apparently an aspiring poet. “Did this enchanting lady happen to travel with a mute servant? A fellow named Taro?”
The driver gasped. “How did you know?”
Prigg gave a tight smile. “An educated guess.” It had to be Madame Eldritch, the tea-seller who worked near the port. Wherever she went, a trail of stupefied men followed. Just that morning, in fact, Prigg had visited Augustus Quire the bookseller and found him similarly befuddled. He did not know Eldritch’s connection to Quire, but it was clear that a connection existed. “Did this woman have anyone else in her company?”
The driver nodded. “A young girl with dark skin—she didn’t appear to be from Bustleburgh. She was asleep when we left the city but lively enough when I was assaulted. She ran off with the highwaymen.”
“The Quire girl,” Prigg said. “It has to be.” He clenched his fists, furious at how she had slipped through his grasp once again. He turned to his chief deputy, a useful (if ruthless) mercenary named Torvald Knucklemeat. “What do you see?”
Knucklemeat stepped over the rubble and splinters, his pistols clattering against his body with each step. He wore a patch over one eye like a storybook buccaneer. He rubbed his stubbly chin. “The man ain’t lying about one thing: Your fugitives were here—there’s clear cuts on the
walls from the boy’s blade. And those are hoofprints in the mud, sure enough.” He knelt down, studying the floor. “Now, that’s interesting.”
Prigg went to join him. “What is it?”
Knucklemeat pointed to a bookcase that looked like it had seen better days. “This case here.”
“What about it?” Prigg said.
“The wood ain’t normal, sir.” Knucklemeat spat a wad of tobacco on the floor, a disgusting habit that made Prigg’s stomach turn. “There’s a bit o’ shine about it, if you follow my meaning.”
Prigg did follow. Knucklemeat, whatever his shortcomings, had a rare ability to spot nonsense. The really dangerous kind. The kind that otherwise managed to stay hidden in plain sight. How the man did it, Prigg preferred not to ask. “An enchanted bookcase,” Prigg said.
“Wouldn’t surprise me!” Knucklemeat stood up, scratching under his eye patch. “Not for nothing, but I think I seen another bookcase like this once before in the ’wald. Found it abandoned in the woods a few years back. Probably a pile of splinters by now. You want me to pay it a visit?”
“Bring the bookcase back to me,” Prigg said. It was probably a false lead, but he could not afford to miss anything.
Knucklemeat tipped his hat and stepped out into the darkness. Prigg remained where he stood, turning over clues. The bandit, the book, and now Eldritch. It seemed that nonsense was drawn to Sophie Quire like maggots to cheese.
“Inquisitor?” It was one of the guards he had brought from the city. “We’ve searched the entire village, sir. All the inhabitants are gone.” It was clear from his demeanor that he, like all the other guards, was frightened of these woods and what they might hold. Up until today, he had lived in the certainty that nonsense didn’t exist—and now that beautiful, efficient certainty was under attack.
Prigg wiped his hands and stepped outside to his waiting horse, which was hitched to an iron carriage that traveled with him always. “They are not gone. They’re hiding in the shadows. Like vermin.” He surveyed the cluster of little thatch-roofed huts, with their little doors and little rooms and little windows and little beds and little tables and chairs. “They may even be watching us now.”
He walked to an open fire pit, where a plucked borogrove was roasting on a spit. He knelt down and removed a smoldering log from the fire. “Let us show them that they cannot hide from the light of progress!” He spoke loud enough that any person or creature lurking in the shadows would hear him. “Not anymore.”
He touched the end of the log to one of the thatched rooftops. The roof instantly caught fire and smoke billowed from it. Within seconds, the entire house was ablaze. Prigg watched approvingly as the fire moved from one hut to another, until he was encircled in flame. Within seconds, Little Whence was reduced to a ring of smoldering timber.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he said, the flickering firelight reflecting in his pale eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE CASE of the RATTLING BOOKCASE
Sophie watched Professor Cake tend to his crackling hearth, her mind reeling with all the things he had just told her—not the least of which was that she was somehow meant to save her world. She had read enough stories in her life to be familiar with the trope in which heroes make a great show of being reluctant when told they must embark on a dangerous quest. They often refuse the call to adventure, only to change their minds at the very last moment. This had always bothered Sophie, who thought that such dithering was both unrealistic and unheroic. But now that she was the hero and she was being told she must embark on a dangerous quest, she suddenly understood just how difficult it was to take that first step. “So you need me to find these books and stop Pyre Day from happening,” she said. “Why not just send Peter and Sir Tode?”
“Let me be clear on one thing,” the old man replied. “It is not I who asks you to do this—it is the book that asks you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “When The Book of Who named you as its Storyguard, it did so because it knew that you were the only one who could help it. Not Peter. Not Sir Tode. Not even myself.”
“Yes, but look at me . . .” She stared up at him, clasping the book in her arms. Sophie knew she was smart. But she also knew that the knowledge found in books was not what it took to survive in the real world. Being smart had not helped her escape from Madame Eldritch. Being smart had not saved her from Inquisitor Prigg on the bridge. “I’m a bookmender. I’m not meant for adventure.”
“For once I agree with her,” Peter muttered.
Professor Cake asked that Sir Tode and Peter allow Sophie a bit of time to consider what was being asked of her. “The task may have chosen Sophie,” he said to them, “but now Sophie must choose the task.” Peter seemed a little put out by this request, but he did not argue, and he and Sir Tode wandered off to some unseen location.
Sophie soon found herself pacing the library with the Professor at her side. Professor Cake said nothing more of The Book of Who or her task, but only puffed on his pipe, a long trail of smoke curling up from the bowl. The two of them walked through the maze of stacks in relative silence. She stared at the thousands of books on thousands of shelves, all facing spine-in.
“Here’s a shelf you might find interesting,” Professor Cake said, stopping at the end of a row. “It’s from HazelPort.”
As Sophie followed him to a wide bookcase that looked to be made of sandstone, she caught the distinct smell of the ocean. “HazelPort,” she said, recalling the name from The Book of Who. “That’s Peter’s home.”
“HazelPort is where he was born, though I’m not sure he’d call it home.” With the stem of his pipe, he pointed to a book on the middle shelf. “Have a look at that one, with the gold edging.”
Sophie reached up and took the book from the shelf. It was a newly printed volume with gilded pages. She opened the cover—
AN ORAL HISTORY
OF THE KINGDOM OF HAZELPORT
as Faithfully Recorded by Sir Tode, Royal Storyteller
(with decorations by the traitorous and unworthy ape
Jawbone, whose life was mercifully spared by
the Good Queen Peg—long may she live!)
Just then, Sophie heard the light clopping of hooves on the floor. “I see you’ve found something truly inspiring!” It was Sir Tode approaching.
Sophie’s eyes went wide, and she turned toward the knight. “You’re a royal storyteller?” Before this moment, she had not known such a thing existed, but she was nonetheless impressed. She had, in fact, never met an author in person before. As you can imagine, it was a singularly thrilling experience. Should you ever be so lucky as to encounter an author in your life, you should shower her or him with gifts and praise.
Sir Tode preened with visible pride. “It’s more of an honorary title, really. But I take the work seriously. That’s the first of what I hope will be many volumes.”
“Sir Tode is many impressive things,” Professor Cake said. “But when he began his career, he was a hapless shepherd without a penny to his name. And Peter was less, even, than that.”
“Quite right!” Sir Tode added. “As I say in my introduction: ‘From the bitterest roots grow the sweetest fruits.’”
Sophie turned back to the book, flipping through the chapters, all of which had lovely, storylike names. She reached a chapter near the end called “The Vagabond King.” It was marked with an illustration of a baby floating in a basket. Perched on the edge of the basket was a large black raven.
She began to read the chapter aloud: “‘Now, for those of you who know anything about blind children, you are aware that they make the very best thieves—’”
“That’s enough reading,” said a voice right behind her. Peter had somehow reached her without making a sound. He pulled the book from Sophie’s grasp and replaced it on the shelf.
Sophie stared at the boy, who seemed at once disdainful and afraid. However much Peter Nimble might have presented himself as a heartless mercenary, it was clear to Sophie that there
was more to his story than that. And for reasons she could not quite explain, it was a story she very much wanted to learn. She turned to Professor Cake. “When do we leave?”
Sophie, Peter, and Sir Tode made preparations to embark—preparations that chiefly involved eating a plate of honey biscuits and drying their muddy clothes by the fire. “Savor every bite,” Sir Tode said, licking his mustache. “If there’s anything my adventuring has taught me, it’s that food is too often in short supply.”
“Professor,” Peter said through a mouthful of biscuit, “how do you think we should start? Do you know where the other books are?”
“If I knew that, I would have gotten the books myself.” Professor Cake turned toward Sophie. “Perhaps you should ask the Storyguard.”
Sophie shifted, uncomfortable. “Madame Eldritch was going to sell the book to some sort of collector,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Maybe we should try to talk to him and learn more about the books.” She held The Book of Who in her open hands. “Who was Madame Eldritch going to find?” she asked. The book unlatched itself and opened to an entry. She read it aloud for Peter’s benefit:
BARON MAGPIE: Collector at the outermost edge of the Grimmwald. Currently resides in the Ivory Tower, lost library of the hinterland empire, whose shelves house The Book of What.
~For more information, see: Book of Where, “Ivory Tower,” “Grimmwald”; Book of Who, “Storyguard”; Book of What, “Book of What”
Peter tilted his head. “So this baron has one of the other books?”
“That must be why Eldritch knew he would be interested in The Book of Who—she was planning to sell it to him.” Sophie was becoming increasingly convinced that Madame Eldritch did not fully understand what The Book of Who was. If she did, she might not have been so eager to sell it to some rich baron.
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 11