Read Online Inkheart by Cornelia Funke - Free Book Online
Authors: Cornelia Funke
Tags: Fantasy fiction, People & Places, Juvenile Fiction, Magic, Fantasy & Magic, Europe, Children's stories, Books & Libraries, Inkheart, Created by pisces_abhi, Storytelling
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Dustfinger.
Meggie looked at him suspiciously. Then she knelt down beside the backpack and stroked Gwin's silky tail. "No," she said. "But he taught me to read when I was five."
"Ask him why he doesn't read aloud to you," said Dustfinger. "And don't let him put you off with excuses."
"What do you mean?" Meggie straightened up, feeling cross. "He doesn't like reading aloud, that's all."
Dustfinger smiled. Leaning out of the deck chair, he put one hand into the backpack. "Ah, that feels like a nice full stomach," he commented. "I think Gwin had good hunting last night. I hope he hasn't been plundering a nest again. Perhaps it's just Elinor's rolls and eggs." Gwin's tail twitched back and forth almost like a cat's. Meggie looked at the backpack with distaste. She was glad she couldn't see Gwin's muzzle. There might still be blood on it.
Dustfinger leaned back in Elinor's deck chair. "Shall I give you a performance this evening —
show you what the bottles, the cotton wool, and all the other mysterious things in my bag are for?" he asked without looking at her. "It has to be dark for that, pitch dark. Are you scared to be outdoors in the middle of the night?"
"Of course not!" said Meggie, offended, although really she was not at all happy to be out in the dark. "But first, tell me why you stuck those horns on Gwin! And tell me what you know about the book."
Dustfinger folded his arms behind his head. "Oh, I know a lot about that book," he said. "And perhaps I'll tell you sometime, but first the two of us have a date. Here at eleven o'clock tonight.
OK?"
Meggie looked up at a blackbird singing its heart out on Elinor's rooftop. "OK," she said. "Eleven o'clock tonight." Then she went back to the house.
Elinor had suggested that Mo set up his workshop next door to the library. There was a little room where she kept her collection of old books about animals and plants (for there seemed to be no kind of book that Elinor didn't collect). She kept this collection on shelves of pale, honey-colored wood. On some of the shelves the books were propping up glass display cases of beetles pinned to cardboard, which only made Meggie dislike Elinor all the more. By the only window was a handsome table with turned legs, but it was barely half as long as the one Mo had in his 33
workshop at home. Perhaps that was why he was swearing quietly to himself when Meggie put her head around the door.
"Look at this table!" he said. "You could sort a stamp collection on it but not bind books. This whole room is too small. Where am I going to put the press and my tools? Last time I worked up in the attics, but now they're filled with crates of books, too."
Meggie stroked the spines of the books crammed close together on the shelves. "Just tell her you need a bigger table." Carefully, she took a book off the shelf. It contained pictures of the strangest of insects: beetles with horns, beetles with proboscises—one even had a proper nose.
Meggie passed her forefinger over the pastel-colored pictures. "Mo, why haven't you ever read aloud to me?"
Her father turned around so abruptly that the book almost fell from her hand. "Why do you ask me that? You've been talking to Dustfinger, haven't you? What did he tell you?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." Meggie herself didn't know why she was lying. She put the beetle book back in its place. It felt almost as if someone were spinning a very fine web around the two of them, a web of secrets and lies closing in on them all the time. "I think it's a good question, though," she said as she took out another book. It was called Masters of Disguise. The creatures in it looked like live twigs or dry leaves.
Mo turned his back to her again. He began laying out his implements on the table, even though it was too small: his folding tool on the left, then the round-headed hammer he used to tap the spines of books into shape, the sharp paper knife . . . He usually whistled under his breath as he worked, but now he
Meggie looked at him suspiciously. Then she knelt down beside the backpack and stroked Gwin's silky tail. "No," she said. "But he taught me to read when I was five."
"Ask him why he doesn't read aloud to you," said Dustfinger. "And don't let him put you off with excuses."
"What do you mean?" Meggie straightened up, feeling cross. "He doesn't like reading aloud, that's all."
Dustfinger smiled. Leaning out of the deck chair, he put one hand into the backpack. "Ah, that feels like a nice full stomach," he commented. "I think Gwin had good hunting last night. I hope he hasn't been plundering a nest again. Perhaps it's just Elinor's rolls and eggs." Gwin's tail twitched back and forth almost like a cat's. Meggie looked at the backpack with distaste. She was glad she couldn't see Gwin's muzzle. There might still be blood on it.
Dustfinger leaned back in Elinor's deck chair. "Shall I give you a performance this evening —
show you what the bottles, the cotton wool, and all the other mysterious things in my bag are for?" he asked without looking at her. "It has to be dark for that, pitch dark. Are you scared to be outdoors in the middle of the night?"
"Of course not!" said Meggie, offended, although really she was not at all happy to be out in the dark. "But first, tell me why you stuck those horns on Gwin! And tell me what you know about the book."
Dustfinger folded his arms behind his head. "Oh, I know a lot about that book," he said. "And perhaps I'll tell you sometime, but first the two of us have a date. Here at eleven o'clock tonight.
OK?"
Meggie looked up at a blackbird singing its heart out on Elinor's rooftop. "OK," she said. "Eleven o'clock tonight." Then she went back to the house.
Elinor had suggested that Mo set up his workshop next door to the library. There was a little room where she kept her collection of old books about animals and plants (for there seemed to be no kind of book that Elinor didn't collect). She kept this collection on shelves of pale, honey-colored wood. On some of the shelves the books were propping up glass display cases of beetles pinned to cardboard, which only made Meggie dislike Elinor all the more. By the only window was a handsome table with turned legs, but it was barely half as long as the one Mo had in his 33
workshop at home. Perhaps that was why he was swearing quietly to himself when Meggie put her head around the door.
"Look at this table!" he said. "You could sort a stamp collection on it but not bind books. This whole room is too small. Where am I going to put the press and my tools? Last time I worked up in the attics, but now they're filled with crates of books, too."
Meggie stroked the spines of the books crammed close together on the shelves. "Just tell her you need a bigger table." Carefully, she took a book off the shelf. It contained pictures of the strangest of insects: beetles with horns, beetles with proboscises—one even had a proper nose.
Meggie passed her forefinger over the pastel-colored pictures. "Mo, why haven't you ever read aloud to me?"
Her father turned around so abruptly that the book almost fell from her hand. "Why do you ask me that? You've been talking to Dustfinger, haven't you? What did he tell you?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." Meggie herself didn't know why she was lying. She put the beetle book back in its place. It felt almost as if someone were spinning a very fine web around the two of them, a web of secrets and lies closing in on them all the time. "I think it's a good question, though," she said as she took out another book. It was called Masters of Disguise. The creatures in it looked like live twigs or dry leaves.
Mo turned his back to her again. He began laying out his implements on the table, even though it was too small: his folding tool on the left, then the round-headed hammer he used to tap the spines of books into shape, the sharp paper knife . . . He usually whistled under his breath as he worked, but now he
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