“And?” Peter prodded.
“And we had a conversation in which he tried to convince me of certain things.” A small smirk played at the edges of her mouth. “Chiefly that I was not so wicked a person as I liked to believe.”
“You’re lying,” Peter said. “The Professor would never help a person like you.”
“The Professor contains multitudes that you can hardly fathom. And he wasn’t helping me—he was helping you.” It was unclear to Sophie whether the woman was referring directly to Peter or to all of them in the room. “I did not come here to bicker. I came here to stop Inquisitor Prigg. You, Sophie Quire, are the Last Storyguard. And if we can wrest those books from his hands, perhaps you can summon something to end this madness.”
“But it’s too late,” Sophie said. “Prigg’s halfway to the Pyre by now. We’ll never reach him in time.”
Madame Eldritch turned toward the open bookcase. “Perhaps there is another who can speed your path?”
Sophie saw a shadow stir in the darkness. One silver paw stretched onto the floor of the shop, followed by another. Two yellow eyes appeared above a row of sharp teeth. “Hello, my cub,” said a low, growling voice.
“Akrasia!” Sophie cried, running to meet the tigress. She wrapped her arms around the beast’s great neck, burying her face in matted layers of warm fur. “I thought you were lost.”
“And I would have been, if my chain had not caught upon the rocks at the mouth of the Uncannyon.” The tigress glanced back at the chain and stone still trailing behind her. “I was left dangling over the precipice, trapped between this world and the next.” She bowed her head. “It was Eldritch who rescued me from that dire place.”
“Come, bookmender.” Madame Eldritch placed a hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “The hour is upon us.”
Sophie looked back to her father, who had said almost nothing since his release from the quickbramble. He sat on the floor, his back against an empty shelf, watching her with pained eyes. And here she was, about to leave him once more. And this time, she might not return. “Papa . . .” she said, but she could not find the words.
Sophie’s father stood and stepped toward her. “You have too much of your mother in you.” He touched her face. “I was wrong to ever think you should remain inside this dusty shop.”
Sophie gave him a hard embrace. She shut her eyes tight, letting tears spill down her cheeks. “I don’t want to leave you again, Papa.”
Her father smiled down at her. “Go, my child. You have a world to save.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
PYRE DAY
It was a crisp, windy morning in Bustleburgh—perfect weather for burning books. Sigmund Prigg walked cheerily down the street, surveying the buzz of activity. Every man, woman, and child in the city had turned out for the celebration that would symbolize their freedom from the shackles of ignorance and superstition, their arms filled with stacks of storybooks to cast into the Pyre.
As predicted, it was the biggest Pyre Day to date. There were food venders and musicians and souvenir-hawkers wandering the streets. Fashionable women had used torn-up books to make bonnets and folding fans. Men had spiced their tobacco with shredded bits of paper, claiming it helped improve the flavor of their pipes. Mill workers and servants were given the morning off to join the festivities. A contagious excitement filled the air. For generations, this city had been consigned to a backwater garrison at the edge of the civilized world—but now (at last!) the people of Bustleburgh had outgrown their childish ways and were ready to enter a sensible new world.
Prigg walked under one of two hideous wolf statues, whose stone paw he could not help but touch for luck as he passed. “Just look at them,” he said to no one in particular. “The bright faces of our future world.” This crowd, this cheery mob, was his creation. He had not told the people that the Pyre itself was a fool’s errand. Eradicating individual pieces of nonsense was impossible, when one got down to it: For every one thing you burned, two more cropped up. And yet he had devised a way to do what the Pyre could not. That his plan relied on the creation of one last magical thing (the Zeitgeist) rankled him slightly. It wasn’t an elegant solution—but then, practical solutions rarely are. That pragmatism was what made Prigg superior to common men. He was not afraid to break a few eggs to make an omelet. The thought of omelets made Prigg hungry. Perhaps he would treat himself to one after saving the world.
“Inquisitor?” said a guard with a sallow, pudgy face. “The Pyre’s all set. You can start whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” Prigg said. He looked at the books of Who, What, Where, and When, which lay in a sack at his feet. He had bound them with rope so as not to alarm the crowds. These four books, to which he had once so foolishly dedicated his life, seemed almost embarrassingly small before the massive Pyre. He wondered what he should do with the Four Questions once his plan was complete. The honorable thing to do would be to destroy them, but a part of him wondered if he might prefer to keep them. It had been tremendously thrilling to use them in the bookshop, and he rather liked the idea of having them on hand. Just in case, he thought.
Prigg took the bag of books and approached a wooden dais that had been erected in front of the gates. It was a sensible, plain structure, devoid of frills and ornamentation. No nonsense. The crowd became silent as Prigg assumed his place. Another guard handed him a flickering torch, which he raised above his head.
“Men and women of Bustleburgh!” he shouted, his voice ringing out across the river. “After years, our diligent work has come to an end. Today we put to death those superstitions and trivialities that have for generations held us captive. We bury fancy and erect a monument to fact. We ignore the siren song of what if for the stolid comfort of what is. Today we say, No more nonsense!” He lowered his torch and lit the Pyre.
The crowd burst into riotous cheering. Thousands of men, women, and children were packed shoulder to shoulder along the bridge and shore and streets. More people hung out from windows and balconies. All cheering for him.
The books were perfect fuel, and in a matter of seconds, the entire Pyre was engulfed in flames. Prigg stared up at the black plume of smoke that rose up like a column to the heavens. The heat was overpowering. He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief and breathed the ashen air.
“This Pyre is but the first spark,” he called out over the roaring fire. “Here starts a flame of progress that will spread and grow and will not stop until the very world is consumed in its light.” A bit florid, he thought, but effective. “Let us shed the shackles of our past and march boldly into a modern, sensible tomorrow.” He spread his arms wide like a ruler of old.
People in the crowd were all cheering now, waving flags and handmade banners high over their heads. “No nonsense! No nonsense! No nonsense!”
Prigg took The Book of What from the bag and opened it to the page he had marked. “Citizens of Bustleburgh, I present to you the end of nonsense. I present to you . . . the Zeitgeist!”
A tremendous rumbling sound seemed to vibrate up through the earth. Prigg was very nearly knocked off the dais as a great wind swept out from the pages of the book and whirled like a cyclone around the burning Pyre, stoking the flames high—so high that their raging peak could not be seen from Prigg’s vantage point. The black plume of smoke spread from horizon to horizon, blotting out the sun until only the light of the Pyre remained.
Prigg kept one hand on his wig and peered upward at the sky. Truth be told, he did not know exactly what would appear when he summoned the Zeitgeist. His knowledge of the creature was based on accounts from ancient stories. Every description of the creature was a little bit different—a watery serpent or a hungry storm cloud or even a living avalanche. He suspected that it made use of its surroundings. He wondered what the creature would make of this place.
By now, the howling wind was so loud it hurt his ears. Prigg closed his eyes. He imagined he could actually hear the thousands of swirling thoughts that had summoned i
t into being, all of them saying, “No Nonsense!” in one accord.
And then, just as quickly, the wind vanished.
Flags stopped moving. People stopped chanting. They stared up at the sunless sky. The Zeitgeist was gone. There was no rushing or wind. No choir of voices. Only the crackling of the Pyre remained.
The spirit of anticipation quickly gave way to mild disappointment. Rumblings of “Is that all?” and “So what?” began to ripple through the crowd.
Prigg scanned the red horizon, a wave of dread creeping over him. Where was the creature? It had to be there somewhere. In the water, in the ground, somewhere. It had to have worked.
A piercing scream cut through the confusion. Prigg saw a woman in front of the crowd. Her eyes were wide with terror. “The P-P-Pyre,” she said, pointing. “It’s alive!”
Prigg turned around to face the pile of burning books.
Only, it wasn’t a pile anymore.
There was a muffled crackling sound as the books on the Pyre drew themselves up from the ground and slowly, impossibly, came to life. Like metal filaments on a lodestone, the books clung to one another to form a single mass. Flaming columns of books spread out from the sides of the Pyre like enormous limbs as the Zeitgeist reshaped itself into a massive, hulking three-legged beast. A tail of fire waved back and forth, whiffling the air as it moved. Two glowing pits appeared at the top of the pyre—eyes like embers. The creature opened a huge, flaming maw and ROARED.
The crowd screamed as a wave of heat singed the air above them. Prigg stood stock-still on the dais, his mouth open, transfixed by the creature before him—a hundred feet tall and burning with rage.
It was more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined.
CHAPTER FORTY
THE ZEITGEIST
Sophie was still three blocks from the bridge when she heard the first roar of the Zeitgeist. The sound seemed to echo up through the ground and rattle her very bones. She clutched Akrasia’s mane as the tigress raced through the twisting alleys. The beast’s chain and stone trailed behind her, casting sparks against the cobblestone street. “Faster,” Sophie whispered.
Sophie and Akrasia emerged from the alleys to find that the entire shore was packed full of people, all of them staring agape at the Pyre. Orange light shone off the river, rippling and glinting in the smoky haze. The flames moved strangely, seeming to draw themselves up from the ground.
Akrasia stopped running. Sophie let go of her neck and slid to her feet. “The Pyre,” she whispered. “It’s come alive.” From this distance, she could not see the books within the beast’s body, but she knew they were there. She could hear them, smell them, burning and crackling and dying forever. The fiery beast swayed from side to side, charred books spilling from its body like flaming detritus.
Sophie shielded her eyes from the glare and saw a figure on a wooden platform in front of the gates. “It’s Prigg,” she said. The man looked absurdly small before the hundred-foot Pyre.
A hush fell over the crowd as Prigg spread his arms wide. “Now!” he shouted to the beast. “Go forth and do your work! Do not stop until you have cleansed every corner of the world of nonsense!”
There was a halfhearted smattering of applause from the crowd, though it was obvious that their enthusiasm for this endeavor had dramatically decreased.
The Zeitgeist shifted itself, turning to face the one who had addressed it in such a bold manner. The beast angled down its massive, flaming head, focusing its ember eyes on the tiny man at its feet.
Inquisitor Prigg stared defiantly back at it. “No, no—you’re not listening!” He pointed again, this time with both arms. “The nonsense is that way!”
The beast growled, then opened its jaws to reveal an enormous flaming tongue. Charred books spilled from its open mouth.
Prigg inched backward, swatting embers from his face. “What are you doing?” He tripped over the bundle of books, which he had set on the platform beside him. “Stop it this instant!” He shook his fist at the skies. “I am your creator, and I command you to—”
Sigmund Prigg’s final words were likely meant to be Stop it, but we will never know for sure, because at that very moment the Zeitgeist leaned down and swallowed the man in one go.
The crowd watched in complete, horrified silence. It was not clear, exactly, whether the man was being eaten or burned. What was clear was that it was painful. Sophie dug her fingers into Akrasia’s fur, her own heart beating wildly. Inquisitor Prigg’s screams rang out for a long and uncomfortable minute, and then they were gone. The sight was sickening, but more sickening still was the fact that the Zeitgeist, having finished its snack, had now turned to face the rest of the mob. It tilted its head, mouth open and hungry. It took a tentative step toward the open gates. Toward Bustleburgh.
A panicked uproar swept through the crowd on the far side of the river as people pushed to cross back over the bridge. Sophie stared at the Zeitgeist, which took another step toward the city. “I don’t understand,” she said. “If that thing’s meant to destroy nonsense, why did it kill Prigg?”
Akrasia backed up, her hackles raised. “And why is it looking at Bustleburgh?”
Whatever the cause, it was becoming increasingly clear that Prigg’s monster had its own ideas about what—and whom—it wanted to consume. With a tremendous roar, it raised two fiery fists over its body and brought them down on the wall that separated it from the city. Huge chunks of burning stone soared through the air, plunging into the river like rogue meteorites.
Bustleburghers screamed in terror, running in every direction, climbing over one another to escape the approaching beast. The Zeitgeist worked its way toward the edge of the river, smashing through the factories and mills and docks that lined the shore. One by one, the buildings collapsed in a burst of smoldering rubble.
Peter and Sir Tode were the first to catch up with Sophie and Akrasia. Madame Eldritch and Sophie’s father were soon to follow.
“Good heavens,” Sir Tode said from inside Peter’s burgle-sack. “I’m suddenly very glad there’s a river between that thing and us.”
Peter was watching with similar awe. “It’s enormous,” he said, inching back. Sophie glanced at the boy. His green eyes were wide and unblinking, as if he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. She wondered if that was part of the reason he preferred the blindfold: Perhaps death and destruction were not so frightening when you could not see them? Sophie reached out and held his hand in her own.
The panic had by now spread to Sophie’s side of the river. She was nearly knocked over as men and women rushed to get away from the beast. “What’s it going after?” she called, still watching as the Zeitgeist smashed its way along the shore. “Why is it trying to get to the water?”
“It doesn’t want the water,” Madame Eldritch said. She reached up and clasped Taro’s hand in her own. “It wants my shop . . .”
The beast reached down over the water and grabbed hold of the round tower that housed Madame Eldritch’s oubliette. With a tremendous roar, the creature ripped the entire tower clean from the water—charms and baubles and incense and a thousand treasures spilled out from the bottom. The beast raised the tower over its head and poured the nonsense into its mouth, chewing. When it was finished, it hurled the empty tower clear across the river.
“Run!” Sophie cried as the tower sailed over her head and—crash!—smashed into the courthouse behind her. Stone and glass rained down on the terrified crowd as the courthouse steeple cracked and slid off the roof, crashing to the ground in an explosion of rubble. Men, women, and children ran pell-mell in all directions, mad with terror. The beast roared again, its hot breath warping the very air, and lumbered toward the bridge. If anything, it looked even bigger than it had a moment before.
Peter and Sir Tode were already lost to the crowd. Akrasia and Sophie’s father created a barrier in front of Sophie, fighting off people to stop her from being trampled.
“We have to stop it from crossing that b
ridge!” Akrasia growled, bracing her flank against the stampeding mob. “If it makes it to the city, everything will be destroyed!”
Sophie shielded her eyes from the heat and peered more closely at what remained of the city Pyre grounds. The podium where Prigg had been standing was now a skeleton of flaming lumber. Dangling from one of the shattered beams was a cloth bag. Even from this distance, the shape was unmistakable. “The Four Questions!” she cried. “They’re still on the platform!”
“The books are nonsense!” Sophie’s father called, dodging a group of retreating guards. “Shouldn’t the beast have eaten them?”
Sophie didn’t know. “There must be some reason they were spared. If I can get the books back, I may be able to summon something to stop the Zeitgeist.”
This was easier said than done. The crowd was too thick to get through, and it was all they could do not to get carried off in the human current. “The Four Questions will have to wait,” Sophie’s father cried, pushing back a charging stevedore. “There’s no way through all these people.”
Sophie clung to her father, staring out over the mob. “The only way across that bridge would be to go above the crowd. But that’s impossible, unless we suddenly sprouted—” She stopped short, staring at the bridge.
“What is it?” Akrasia said, rearing onto her hind legs. “What do you see?”
Sophie was watching a small figure scaling one of the lampposts along the railing, moving high above the crowd. The figure glanced back toward her for a moment, revealing the most remarkable pair of emerald-green eyes. She smiled. “I see . . . Peter Nimble.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE GREATEST THIEF WHO EVER LIVED
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 27