Author's Note: This takes place during Inkheart, a few days after Meggie and Fenoglio are captured. I've changed things around a bit, where Mo is still missing, but Dustfinger remains at the camp under Capricorn's watchful eye. He is not yet considered a traitor to Capricorn, but promised Mo he would try and keep Meggie out of harm's way while Moe came up with a plan, as he is not allowed to leave the site.
While reading the books, I always pictured Meggie much older than twelve. For the sake of the story, she is 17. This is a Dustfinger/Meggie plot and it's quite twisted, so if you don't like, please don't read.
Inkheart and its characters do not belong to me as much as I wish they did.
Meggie always had Mo's hand to cling to when she was frightened. He could conjure up the right words to calm her fears, the hushed sentences soothing as a lullaby. A mother's love, or so she'd heard, was forever. But Mo's was sacred. Mo's was a knit afghan and a dog-eared novel on a rainy afternoon. Mo's was a crackling fireplace during a snowstorm. They had a silent language of books and band aids and forehead kisses that comforted much more than a simple, "It'll be okay".
But Mo was gone.
It used to be that Meggie had never met a word she didn't like. Now she could tell you a few. "Vulnerable" was the first. She traced it on the bedsheets with her fingertip. She hated the way it sounded on her tongue, hated how at seventeen, she was feeling it for the first time. If she hadn't stuck by her father's side all her life, only reading about susceptibility and helplessness in books, and gone out, kissed a boy, gotten stood up, something, she would've been prepared for this. Her hand dropped. She knew she was being ridiculous. Nothing could've prepared her for this.
Fenoglio's apprehensive gaze was burning a hole through her back. Meggie refused to look at him. She wasn't sure she could bear listening to him tell her once more to "eat, for God's sake girl, you're a withering away!" Her appetite was nonexistent and their four walls were surely closing in, suffocating her. A movie reel constantly plagued her mind of the horrific "what if's". What if Moe is hurt? What if I never get out? What if they got Eleanor? What if I'm to die in here? She couldn't remember the last time she slept.
"It's been four days," the words parted her lips, a raspy murmur.
Fenoglio's scribbling stopped. He had been writing and writing even though Capricorn decided to post-pone the "event" that was so long-awaited. He never said why, but Meggie barely found relief in that announcement. She just wanted to go home.
"He'll come, Meggie."
She lifted her eyes to meet his, so sure and contented. "How do you know? Mo could be dead in the mountains somewhere!" Her voice cracked. She cursed how desperate she sounded. Playing damsel in distress never sat well with her.
He shrugged and balanced his pencil between his fingers again. "He's a smart man. Don't think for a second he'd leave you up here."
His words fell flat. Fenoglio, though a great writer, lacked the skill of persuasive speaking. Meggie found no consolation in this.
She squeezed her eyes shut and laid back onto her featherless pillow, trying to block out the demons that invaded her mind, vying for her attention. A dreamless sleep finally enveloped her at last…
An hour or so later, the door to their room slammed open, echoes reverberating off the walls. Meggie's heart jumped into her throat, forgetting for a groggy second where she was. Mortola stared coolly back at her.
"Capricorn has decided his little witch should have her own quarters," she sneered, pulling Meggie roughly by the arm. "Don't ask questions, just follow me."
At the risk of being tossed about like a ragdoll, Meggie obliged and trailed after the Magpie. She rummaged in a large ruby pouch for a key, all the while glancing darkly at Meggie. "The fire eater said you were displeased with your room. Not good enough for Silvertongue's daughter, hm? No cooking, no cleaning, not even making you read, but you demand better?"
Startled out of her daze at the mention of Dustfinger, Meggie took a step back. "But I never-"
"Quiet!" Mortola barked. "I don't know why Capricorn is permitting this disgusting request. If I were him, I'd teach you a lesson about being a greedy little brat." She turned the handle and prodded Meggie sharply into the room.
It was draped in maroon silk, like something a Moroccan princess would sleep in. For some reason, she felt a slight blush creeping up on her neck. It radiated sensuality, as if she were catching a glimpse of an intimate moment. All the more embarrassing, Mortola thought she had asked for this room that was obviously much more lavish and privileged than the others.
Meggie caught her reflection in the mirror and cringed.
"Been wasting away our food, too, have you?" the Magpie scoffed, shoving a change of clothes into her arms. "You look like a corpse. The men will not be pleased."
A feeling of apprehension swirled in her gut. Whatever this move meant, it was surely not to be good. Had Capricorn changed his mind and decided tonight was the night to call the Shadow after all? Meggie began to panic just thinking about it.
"Capricorn would like to see you tomorrow. In the meantime, clean yourself up. There is water in the bath. I don't want to be blamed for you looking like a dirty rat." With those parting words, Mortola left, locking the door behind her.