Disclaimer: I do not own Inkheart, Inkspell, Inkdeath, or any of the characters therein. They all belong to Cornelia Funke.
Reflections
Taddeo watches.
He has always watched. Since the Adderhead had taken up the throne in the Castle of Night, since the Adderhead no longer needed a tutor. He watched as the Adderhead took younger and younger wives, desperate for one to bear him a son. He watches the Adderhead's joy upon seeing his grandson, Jacopo, and he watched the way his lip would curl in distaste as he looked upon his daughter. His daughter, with the birthmark. His daughter, Her Ugliness. Violante.
Yes, Violante. He trusted her. He has always trusted her, since she was a little girl, hidden away, along with her mother, high in the Castle of Night. Her love for books, while not as well known as her father's thirst for blood, was one of the few things he had in common with her. Yes, Taddeo trusted Violante. Trusted her enough to pass along information about the Adderhead's book.
Yes, that thrice-accursed book.
The book that the Bluejay himself had bound, with hands that seemed far too gentle, too soft, too caring to ever have shed as much blood as he had. Yes, hands could tell a lot about a person. The gnarled joints of a farm hand, the dirt-encrusted nails of a toiler… the shining, polished, manicured fingers of a nobleman. Yes, hands could tell quite a lot about a person. Balbulus, the master illuminator, had hands rough as stones, from the constant contact with thirsty parchment and parched paint powders. Balbulus. Violante placed great trust in the man, and he in her. Taddeo, himself, did not particularly like Balbulus: the man was far too rough, too critical, too egotistical. Still, Violante trusted him, and that was good enough for Taddeo: that poor girl had enough to deal with, what with her husband leaving and her son favoring his grandfather's bloodshed to his mother's love. Yes, Taddeo has watched. He has seen. He knows too well what Violante would wish upon her own father.
The Adderhead.
Condemning so many on so little. A scrap of bread here, a slip of milk there, and the Adderhead's sword would come crashing down, robbing children of their limbs.
Yes, Taddeo has watched.
He himself had seen the book changing. A little smell one day, the next a bit more; Some swelling of the pages, as though they were absorbing the sweat, blood, and tears of the women and children of Ombra and Argenta. He had kept it a secret, until that foolish, greedy bookbinder had let it slip to the Adderhead, costing the man his head. And that same fool's greed was what had landed Taddeo here: deep within the Castle of Night, presumably never to see the sun, moon, or stars ever again. Taddeo could still hear his old student's words, crashing and echoing in his head like waves in the sea, as though his mind could not understand their meaning and was continuously trying, again and again, to make heads or tails of them.
"So that your flesh will rot away slowly like mine."
The words toss and turn, and Taddeo clutches his head and cries out, but they do not relent, only repeat.
"So that your flesh will rot away slowly like mine."
"So that your flesh will rot away slowly like mine."
"So that your flesh will rot away slowly like mine."
"So that your flesh will rot away slowly like mine."
"So that your flesh will rot away slowly like mine."
It does not stop. Taddeo pulls at his thinning hair, screams, paces, does something, anything, to get those damned words out of his thoughts. He crouches, weight falling to the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth slightly, mumbling.
"Not my fault not my fault not my fault not my fault not my fault…"
Slowly, the Adderhead's words begin to fade away, into nothingness, until only two remain.
"Rot away rot away rot away rot away rot away rot away rot away…"