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Inkheart 01
Inkheart
By Cornelia Funke
(Translated from the German by Anthea Bell)
1
Dedication
For
Anna, who even put
The Lord of the Rings
aside for a while to read this book. Could anyone ask
more of a daughter?
And for Elinor, who lent me her name, although I didn't use it for an elf queen.
* * *
You are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A Hope-er, a Pray-er, a Magic Bean buyer,
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin
Come in! Come in!
- Shel Silverstein
2
Table of Contents
3
4
Chapter 1 – A Stranger In The Night
The moon shone in the rocking horse's eye, and in the mouse's eye, too, when Tolly
fetched it out from under his pillow to see. The clock went tick-tock, and in the stillness
he thought he heard little bare feet running across the floor, then laughter and
whispering, and a sound like the pages of a big book being turned over.

L. M. Boston,
The Children of Green Knowe
Rain fell that night, a fine, whispering rain. Many years later, Meggie had only to close her eyes
and she could still hear it, like tiny fingers tapping on the windowpane. A dog barked
somewhere in the darkness, and however often she tossed and turned Meggie couldn't get to
sleep.
The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to
lure her back into its printed pages. "I'm sure it must be very comfortable sleeping with a hard,
rectangular thing like that under your head," her father had teased the first time he found a book
under her pillow. "Go on, admit it, the book whispers its story to you at night."
"Sometimes, yes," Meggie had said. "But it only works for children." Which made Mo tweak her
nose. Mo. Meggie had never called her father anything else.
That night — when so much began and so many things changed forever — Meggie had one of
her favorite books under her pillow, and since the rain wouldn't let her sleep she sat up, rubbed
the drowsiness from her eyes, and took it out. Its pages rustled promisingly when she opened it.
Meggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending
on whether or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her. But she needed light. She
had a box of matches hidden in the drawer of her bedside table. Mo had forbidden her to light
candles at night. He didn't like fire. "Fire devours books," he always said, but she was twelve
years old, she surely could be trusted to keep an eye on a couple of candle flames. Meggie loved
to read by candlelight. She had five candlesticks on the windowsill, and she was just holding the
lighted match to one of the black wicks when she heard footsteps outside. She blew out the
match in alarm — oh, how well she remembered it, even many years later — and knelt to look
out of the window, which was wet with rain. Then she saw him.
The rain cast a kind of pallor on the darkness, and the stranger was little more than a shadow.
Only his face gleamed white as he looked up at Meggie. His hair clung to his wet forehead. The
rain was falling on him, but he ignored it. He stood there motionless, arms crossed over his chest
as if that might at least warm him a little. And he kept on staring at the house.
I must go and wake Mo, thought Meggie. But she stayed put, her heart thudding, and went on
gazing out into the night as if the stranger's stillness had infected her. Suddenly, he turned his
head, and Meggie felt as if he were looking straight into her eyes. She shot off the bed so fast the
open book fell to the floor, and she ran barefoot out into the dark corridor. This was the end of
May, but it was chilly in the old house.
There was still a light on in Mo's room. He often stayed up reading late into the night. Meggie
had inherited her love of books from her father. When she took refuge from a bad dream with
him, nothing could lull her to sleep better than Mo's calm breathing beside her and the sound of
the pages turning. Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.
5
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