There was a strange silence in the room that only moments before had resounded with screams and gunfire. Only the sound of the river rushing beneath them and the fire blazing overhead could be heard. The remaining pilgrims—no more than twenty strong—were watching Behn now. Sophie looked at their faces: Their expressions were a mixture of exhaustion and defeat and fear.
“We have fought to live in a world that no longer will have us,” Behn called to them. “Our story has been told.” He turned toward a shattered hole in the hull, staring out at the Uncannyon—the Great Unknown whose depths could never be plumbed. “It’s time we go home.” He gripped the massive lever and pulled it with all his strength. The moment he had finished, he collapsed to the floor.
The Last Resort lurched to one side as the winch released the ropes that anchored the structure to shore. Sophie stumbled forward, falling against Akrasia, who was there to catch her. There was a jolt as the one remaining bridge snapped taut—groaning to keep the entire structure from being swept away.
It only took Prigg and his guards a moment to realize what was happening. While the guards were uncertain of the meaning, Prigg, however, knew full well what would happen if they floated into the Uncannyon—a darkness from which no living thing could return. He had no intention of seeing it firsthand.
“Get to shore!” he cried, running as fast as he could toward the one remaining bridge, which was creaking under the strain of the river’s current. Then, with a huge shudder, the bridge gave way, and the flaming lighthouse slid along the current toward the waiting abyss.
Scrivener Behn and the remaining pilgrims did not run with Prigg, nor did they jump overboard. Instead, they stood in a circle in the middle of the room, all of them holding hands: Liesel, the sombre child, the cyanese twin, Saint Martin. Their expressions were not peaceful, exactly, but neither were they fearful. They were ready for whatever awaited them.
Sophie took a step toward the group, but Scrivener Behn stopped her with a hard glance. “This is not your story, Sophie Quire. You will not share in our fate.”
“Quickly, my cub.” Sophie felt Akrasia push her toward a hole in the floor. “We must swim.”
Sophie looked out toward the approaching Uncannyon. “The current’s too strong. I can’t make it to shore.”
“I can,” Akrasia said. She took the back of Sophie’s cloak in her jaw and leapt into the river—
Splash!
The breath went out of Sophie as her body hit the water. The river was colder than she had expected, the current stronger. It was all she could do to keep hold of the book in one hand and Akrasia’s collar in the other.
There was a great, creaking snap as the second bridge gave way and fell into the water. Guards screamed as they tumbled from the bridge and into the river. The lighthouse, freed from its mooring, lurched to one side. A wave sloshed over Sophie, carrying her and Akrasia toward the shore. Flailing guards screamed as the current swept them toward the edge of the waiting Uncannyon. Sophie clung to Akrasia, watching as the burning lighthouse sailed after the men, growing smaller and smaller . . .
And then it was gone.
“They’re dead,” Sophie said, gasping. Despite nearly having drowned, she found her throat hoarse and dry. “All of them. Just like that. Dead.”
“There are worse deaths than oblivion, my cub,” Akrasia said, paddling against the current, her eyes fixed on the shore. The beast’s teeth were bared, and it looked as if the current were stronger than she had reckoned.
At last, they reached the far shore, and Sophie could feel the security of a rock beneath her foot. She let go of Akrasia and pulled herself up onto a mossy outcropping. When she had caught her breath, she looked up to see that Akrasia was still in the water, paddling to keep her head above the surface. “What are you doing?” Sophie called.
“It is this cursed chain,” the beast snarled. “The stone drags in the current and pulls me with it.”
“Keep fighting,” Sophie cried. She grabbed hold of Akrasia’s golden collar and tried to pull her ashore, but it was no use. Akrasia was too large, the current too strong.
“Run, my cub,” Akrasia snorted, struggling to breathe above the water. “If I am to lose my life, I can be consoled with the thought that it was not wasted. Whatever happens, do not forget our first words—” Before she could say more, the river took hold of her massive body and swept her toward the darkness.
“No!” Sophie cried, reaching after her, nearly falling back into the water herself. She kept her eyes trained on the tigress, who snarled and splashed—fighting against her fate to the very end. She gave a final roar as she disappeared over the edge of the Uncannyon.
“Akrasia!” Sophie screamed so loudly it stung her throat. She fell to her knees, clutching The Book of Where. Tears came to her eyes and she let them fall. This was not how her adventure was supposed to go. People—real people whom she loved—had died. Because of her.
Sophie’s sobs subsided, and she became aware of others approaching her. She looked up to see guards standing in the haze. And they were not alone. Prigg was standing with them, holding the books of Who and What in his hands, their blue and green covers stained with something black that reminded Sophie of blood. The last she had seen of those books, they had been in Taro’s possession in the Last Resort. There was no way he would have turned them over to anyone but Madame Eldritch. “What happened to Taro?” she said, water dripping down her face.
Prigg sighed, peering farther upshore toward a caravan of wagons. “If you’re referring to that hideous weed belonging to Eldritch, he had a rather unfortunate encounter with my deputy, Mister Knucklemeat.”
Sophie stared into the haze. Lying at the foot of a nearby wagon was a shape that looked very much like a corpse. “You murdered him?” She hadn’t even been sure that was possible.
“Him and anyone else who stands between me and the Four Questions.” The man’s gaze slipped down to The Book of Where in Sophie’s arms.
“I’ll die before I give you the book,” Sophie said, standing.
“You’re almost right,” he said. “But it’s not you who will die.” He waved his ebony cane. “Bring the prisoners.”
No fewer than a dozen guards emerged from the fog, holding both Peter and Sir Tode. There were three loaded muskets trained on each of them. Peter’s head was bleeding where he had been struck, probably by the butt end of a musket. He had cuts all along his arms and a bloody gash in his shoulder where a musket ball had grazed him.
“Peter,” Sophie whispered.
“You’ve doubtless read enough stories to know how this scenario plays out,” Prigg said.
“In my experience,” Sir Tode said through gritted teeth, “the villain dies, and the heroes prevail.”
Prigg nodded. “Ah, but which of us is the villain?”
“Don’t listen to him, Sophie,” Peter said. “Whatever he asks.”
“Oh, I’m not asking,” Prigg said lightly. “Asking is what one does when he lacks sufficient power to enact his will.” He turned to the guards. “Shoot them both.”
Two of the guards drew back the hammers of their muskets. Neither Peter nor Sir Tode reacted.
“Wait!” Sophie cried. “I’ll give you the book. Just don’t shoot.” She stared at Prigg. “Promise me you won’t hurt them.”
The man smiled. “You’re hardly in a position to exact promises.”
Sophie took a step backward, right to the edge of the rushing river. “Promise.” She felt her heel slip on the slick, mossy bed of rock. “Or I’ll dive into the water with The Book of Where, and you’ll lose it forever.”
Prigg stared at her, his sneer hardened into contempt. “Determined to the end,” he said. “You are your mother’s daughter.”
He waved his cane at his guards. “None of these men will harm your compatriots.” He gave a smile as tight as a vise. “You have my word.”
It was not a very broad promise, but it was enough to keep Peter and Sir Tode alive long enough to escape. �
��Agreed,” she said, stepping away from the water.
“Sophie, no!” Peter cried, but it was too late. Sophie had already reached Prigg and handed him The Book of Where.
“And you must do one more thing for me,” Prigg said, taking the book under his arm. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a crumpled piece of blank paper with a torn edge. “Do you know what this is?”
Sophie stared at the paper, a torn-out book page. Even at this distance, she could recognize its weight and texture. “It’s the missing page,” she said. “From The Book of Who.”
“Indeed, it is.” Prigg peered at it like a curious fish. “Your mother tore it out of The Book of Who to ensure that, even if I obtained the Four Questions, I might never be able to use them.”
Sophie swallowed a lump in her throat. She was soaked from head to toe and shivering. This was why Prigg’s entry had been missing from The Book of Who, why Sophie had not been able to learn the name of her mother’s killer. “So even if you get all four books, they’re useless to you unless you can fix the page,” she said.
“Precisely,” Prigg said, stepping closer. “Which is why you’re going to mend it for me.”
PART FOUR
WHEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE BOOK of WHEN
The mending of The Book of Who was perhaps the greatest moment of sorrow in Sophie’s entire life. She knelt on the bank of the river, dutifully reaffixing the missing page into the book. Sprites danced above her in the misty air, casting an eerie light on the vellum pages. Sophie did not once look at Peter or Sir Tode, who were both standing next to her, muskets at their temples. She could hear gunshots in the wilderness; Knucklemeat and the rest of the guards were waging battle in the marsh with the few pilgrims who had escaped from the lighthouse.
Sophie’s hands were muddy and shaking, and the needlework was cruder than usual. But the moment her stitching was complete, the blank page filled with blue ink—
SIGMUND PRIGG: Former Storyguard from the hinterland empire, now acting as Bustleburgh’s Grand Inquisitor. Killer of no fewer than two Storyguard. Current owner of the Four Questions.
~For more information, see: Book of Who, “Storyguard”; Book of What, “Four Questions”; Book of Where, “Hinterlands,” “Bustleburgh”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Sophie whispered, putting away her tools, their handles wet with tears.
Prigg took the open book in his hands, reading the entry with a look of great relish. He walked to a windowless carriage at the front of his caravan and removed an iron key from his pocket. The carriage looked to Sophie like a great iron vault mounted on wheels, which is precisely what it was. “One never can be too careful,” he said, unlocking and opening the door. The inside of the carriage was empty but for a single book with a blood-red cover.
“The Book of When,” Sophie whispered.
Prigg removed the book from the carriage. “At last . . .” He was now clutching all four volumes—Who, What, Where, and When—in his thin arms. “After twelve long years, they are united for one final Evensong.” He took a rapturous breath, his eyes closed.
Sophie watched him, a knot forming in her stomach. These were the books her mother had died to protect. Not just her mother. Also Veena Bluestocking, Scrivener Behn, Taro, Akrasia, and dozens more. And Sophie had just handed over the last book. More than that, she had repaired it for him. “What have I done?” she whispered, her eyes blurry and hot. She wanted to lunge for him, rip the books from his hands. But the bayonets pressed against her back were too many, too real a reminder of just how fragile she was. “What happens now?” she said to Prigg, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. “You say I wish, and the books do anything you tell them to?”
Prigg looked at her. “I wish?” He clucked his tongue. “You disappoint me, Sophie Quire. A true Storyguard would have solved the riddle long ago. It’s written plainly enough on the page.” And so saying, he opened The Book of Who and recited the inscription:
We four books—Who, What, Where, and When—
Hold all the world’s magic bound within.
And when assembled throughout the ages,
Two words, when spoken, unlock our pages.
Impossible things of all shape and kind
Flow from the will of a curious mind.
Sophie turned over the words of the riddle, seeing the letters in her mind. “W-H-A-T-I-F . . .” She blinked. “It’s an acrostic—the first letter of every line of the poem creates a phrase—a child’s game!” She kicked the mud. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“Now’s not really the time,” Peter said, still crouched, blade poised. “We have bigger problems.”
“Indeed, you do,” Prigg said as he laid the four books on the ground in a circle. He stood in the middle and spread out his arms. “WHAT IF . . .” he said in a loud tone. At these words, all four of the books trembled and shuddered and then lifted clear off the ground. They hovered in a ring around him, slowly turning like satellite moons. The man smiled, savoring this moment of absolute power.
Prigg paced along the shore, the books moving with him. “A battlefield is no place for serious conversation. I suggest we relocate to somewhere more comfortable.” He paused, rubbing his chin in rumination. “Where might that be?” As soon as he uttered this question, The Book of Where spun around and opened its cover. Pages riffled automatically until the book stopped on an entry. Prigg read the book floating before him. “A fitting choice!” He cleared his throat and read aloud: “ ‘Quire and Quire Booksellers.’”
Sophie heard the rustling of pages. There was a shiver in the air, and the next thing she knew, she was standing in the middle of her father’s bookshop. The cries of battle, the gunshots, the smoke, and the flames were suddenly replaced with an eerie calm. The walls she had known her entire life now surrounded her on all sides. She stared at the ceiling, the floor, the sagging bookshelves, all cast orange in the light of early dawn. Peter and Sir Tode were beside her, turning about in similar confusion.
“What just happened?” Peter said, spinning around.
“I, er, think we’re back in the bookshop,” Sir Tode said.
“Indeed, we are!” Prigg was beaming, looking about as pleased with himself as a man could be. “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamt of this moment.”
Sophie stared at the cramped shop, at once familiar and alien to her. It seemed smaller than she remembered. The cries of battle still echoed in her ears. “What happened to the guards?” she said. “And the pilgrims?” She thought of Akrasia, pulled under by the rushing current.
“They’re still fighting, I suppose,” Prigg said. “It’s really not my concern.”
“S-S-Sophie?” said a voice behind her. Sophie turned around to see her father, who was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking entirely confused. “How did you get here?” He looked at Prigg. “What is the Inquisitor doing with those books?”
“Stay back, Papa,” Sophie called. “Prigg’s the one who killed Mama.”
It took a moment for her words to register. “He what ?” His face was ashen.
“With this very blade, in fact,” Prigg said, unsheathing his cane. “I hunted her down and drove the steel through her heart . . . right . . . here.” He tapped the foot of the workbench. “You can imagine my disappointment when I turned her body over to find no Book of Who—only a torn page, clasped in her hand.” He offered Sophie’s father a small bow. “Really, I must thank you, sir. If you hadn’t summoned me to your shop two weeks ago, I might have never discovered The Book of Who in your stove. All my years of patient work would have been for naught.”
Sophie looked at her father, who was watching Prigg with an expression of pure shock. “It was you . . . all those years . . . and it was you . . .”
“You can now understand why I was not more helpful when you approached me about finding Coriander’s murderer.” He shrugged. “It was a profound conflict of interest.”
“P
erhaps you’ve forgotten one thing,” Peter said. “Without your guards, you’re a little outnumbered.” He and Sir Tode stood side by side, ready to fight.
“Quite right,” Prigg said. “What might even the odds?” In answer, The Book of What moved in front of him and opened to an entry. Prigg’s face lit up. “Ah, yes! Quickbramble, quickbramble, ramblers take heed . . .”
Sophie heard a rustling sound at her feet. She shrieked, leaping next to her father as thick cords of quickbramble sprang up seemingly from nowhere and grasped at her ankles.
“What is that?” her father cried, throwing his arms protectively around Sophie. More tendrils appeared from the walls and ceiling and wrapped tightly around them both, binding them together.
“Not again!” Sir Tode hissed and snarled as the quickbramble lifted him clear off the floor. He dangled a few feet from the ground, swinging his hooves.
“Sir Tode!” Peter shouted, slicing through the branches at his feet. He lunged for his friend, but no sooner did his feet leave the ground than the quickbramble slithered through the air and caught him by the arm. Peter screamed, swiping at the weeds as the quickbramble tightened around his body and pulled him back against a bookcase. For every branch he hacked off, two more appeared. He kicked and thrashed as the thorny branches wrapped around his neck. His face turned a deadly crimson.
“Peter, stop!” Sophie cried. “You’re going to get crushed.”
Enraged as he was, Peter must have heard the truth of her words. He stopped struggling against the quickbramble, which in turn stopped choking him. He gasped for breath, his face returning to normal.
“A prudent surrender,” Prigg said.
“I knew a man like you once . . . ” Peter said, still breathing hard. “He was obsessed with wielding power. He died like a miserable worm.”
“My dear boy,” Prigg said. “What I desire is the end of power.” Now that Sophie and the others had been restrained, it was clear Prigg felt more comfortable—comfortable enough, even, to engage in the storied tradition of villainous monologue. “What I have done in Bustleburgh, I will now do the world over. From the Fennel Sea to the Ice Barrens and everyplace in between.” He spread his arms wide. “I will purge magic from every corner of the map. When I am through, mankind will be rid of nonsense once and for all.” As he spoke, his voice took on a commanding strength. The books of Who, What, Where, and When—still floating around him—began to spin more quickly to match his passion.
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 25