It was several hours later, Dustfinger surmised, thought he could not do so with any degree of certainty; the darkness of the cellar and the sound of driving rain pounding outside had remained constant. Dustfinger roused himself from his half-sleep, looking over to Farid as he raised his head. The boy was still huddled against the wall, sound asleep with his mouth slightly open.

Absently tracing the thin scars on his face, Dustfinger drew out a box of matches and lit one with his usual normality. He held it between thumb and forefinger, watching the tiny flame dance and flicker, reaching upward even as it burned down the wood towards the hand of its creator. It was whispering to him — Dustfinger could hear the words, soft and beautiful in the still, enclosing darkness; but they were strange things, messages that flitted past his ear and that he could not understand. In his own story, he merely had to breathe the fire-words and the flame would obey him, but here… here it was different. Like everything else.

In his sleep, Farid stretched out with on hand, as thought somehow he could feel the heat of the match. Not quite aware that he was doing so, Dustfinger began watching him again. The boy wouldn't be a bad fire-eater, rally, if he ever stopped being so reckless and lighting a flame wherever and whenever he pleased. But are you really going to take him, Dustfinger? He doesn't belong in your world any more than he does in this one. He has friends here, but who would he have in Ombra? Yes, that was a problem. Dustfinger felt that the boy would be far better off staying in Silvertongue's world, with Meggie and Resa and the book woman, and yet Farid kept tailing him like a stubborn, faithful dog.

Abruptly, a door slammed up above, and Dustfinger's head jerked sharply upward. He sat very still, listening intently. Footsteps, another door being closed… Looks like someone's home, after all, Dustfinger thought.

"Dustfinger!" Farid's urgent whisper came out of the blackness several feet away. Quietly, the fire-eater shifted position and illuminated the boy's face with what little of the match was left. "Someone's up there — here!"

"I know that," answered Dustfinger irritably. "Quiet now, all right?" He beckoned Farid to lie back in the shadows against the wall. "Let's not give ourselves away before we have to."

But whenever he had thought that time originally was, it came much sooner than he had anticipated, and far too soon for his liking. It had taken him a few minutes to comprehend why the footsteps above were ranging all over the house instead of going about their normal activities, but now Dustfinger realized that he had made a serious error.

"Damn!" the fire-eater swore softly as he heard the footfalls coming into the kitchen just overhead. Whoever it was knew that they were here now — Dustfinger had forgotten to lock the front door again.

Farid's hand touched his arm. "What's wrong?"

"Never mind — it's too late now." Rising slowly, Dustfinger shot a quick glance towards the door at the top of the stairs, then flicked away the blackened match stump that had burned itself out without his even noticing. "Move further back," he whispered. The steps were approaching closer, and then the door started to move. "Hurry!"

Too fast — with an unsuppressed cry, Farid stumbled on an overlooked box and went crashing to the floor, the offending object flipping over and adding to the sudden noise. Behind them, the cellar door flew open, and a loud male voice demanded, "Who's there?"

Dustfinger froze. His heart was pounding, but not really with fear, even considering the coward that he knew he was. No, he was feeling excitement, a bit of anxiety, and a quite a lot of annoyance at the boy's untimely ineptitude. Glaring at what little he could make out of Farid's grounded form, he breathed unsympathetically, "Could you possibly have been any louder?"

"Come out where I can see you! I'm warning you — I have a gun!"

Dustfinger sighed as he turned around. "And I have a knife," he countered, keeping his tone level and almost bored. "However, I'd rather not have to use it."

"What are you doing in here?" the man asked sharply. Dustfinger could not see him, but given that circumstance it was unlikely that he could see the fire-eater, either.

"There's a storm outside."

"I'm well aware of that," came the acid reply. "Now answer the question."

"I thought I just did. I've been traveling and I was caught by the storm. When I was rather rudely told that there's no place to stay here and that no one would be willing to take me in for a while, I decided to invite myself in."

"Look, I don't know where you come from, but around here you don't just break into someone's home and expect them to be perfectly fine with it!" There was an angry pause. "Now who are you?"

Shrugging, Dustfinger answered, "I'm a traveling performer. And as a matter of fact, I didn't expect you to be fine with this. I expected to stay here until the storm cleared up and then be on my way, and you not knowing a thing. But I made a foolish mistake, so here we are now."

"A simple traveling performer, eh?" The man sounded neither believing nor impressed. "Are you positive about that? Not a thief, perhaps, or a criminal on the run?"

"Only in the eyes of some." Dustfinger could not help thinking about the numerous times he had switched sides, traded information between Capricorn and Silvertongue just so he could get home, and all it had done was earned him the enmity of both parties.

There was a slight motion at the top of the stairs. "Don't move — I'm turning on the light."

"Don't bother," Dustfinger told him wearily. This was beginning to get tedious. "The power's been knocked out by the storm. Here —" He pulled out an unused torch from his bag, lit another match, and, setting fire to the cotton wool, gently blew the flame to life. "Does that help?"

As the cellar blackness shrank away from Dustfinger's hand, both men were able to get a better look at the other. The presumable owner of the house did in fact have possession of a gun, which startled Dustfinger just a little — he had not been sure if the man was bluffing or not. He was younger than the fire-eater, but not by all that much. At the moment, his dark eyebrows were drawn together in a moderately dangerous way. Upon seeing Dustfinger's face, however, he lowered his weapon a fraction and stared at him as though this were all some impossible dream.

"You've got to be joking," he said, his voice hoarse and unbelieving.

Puzzled, Dustfinger looked at him for a moment, trying to figure out what the sudden change was. Then realization struck him, and he threw up his free hand in utter despair. "You — oh, curse it all!" he said loudly, unable to keep his temper any longer. "Of all the places here, I had to pick this one, didn't I? Fine then — out with it! You've read that accursed book, haven't you?"

"Inkheart?" The man nodded slowly, still staring avidly at Dustfinger. "Yes, I have. One of few, I think. And you — you're Dustfinger."

"Yes, I am. Dustfinger, the poor fire-eater who gets killed off by the end of the book." How bitter, how mocking, his words were, but who could blame him for that? No one else knew the end of their story, no one except him. But it was all changed now, or so he told himself. The old man had not planned for Dustfinger to come into this world, so obviously the story had deviated from its original course.

There was a mixed expression of pity and confusion on the man's face, as though he could not quite come to terms with Dustfinger's physical existence, and yet recognized what the casual reference to the fire-eater's fate really meant. For some reason, this angered Dustfinger far more than the man pointing a gun at him. He was always the receiving object of the pity of others, but not their help. Little good that sympathy did him — he didn't want it, and would willingly thrust it back in their arrogant faces if not for the lone hope that pity might move them to do something useful. Not that it ever did, of course.

"What's the matter?" he said quickly, his tone hard and unfriendly. "Surprised, are you, that I know how I'm supposed to die? It wasn't my idea, believe me."

"Yes. I suppose — I mean, no, this is — it doesn't make sense. It's not possible. How can — you're a storybook character, for heaven's sake! You're fictional — you don't exist! You can't just pop yourself out of a book and — it's like Mr. Tumnus trying to fly out of The Chronicles of Narnia into the real world. It's not even plausible!"

"I don't know about this Mr. Tumnus," Dustfinger said flatly, looking into the flame of the happily burning torch, "but I know two people who can read characters out of stories just with words — and against the wishes of those characters, I might add. Unfortunately," he continued resentfully, "they are somewhat less agreeable when it comes to sending people back in."

Swallowing hard, the owner spoke only after a long moment of silence. "I hope you realize how completely unbelievable you're sounding right now. There's no proof, you see. I'm more inclined to believe that you're making up an intriguing, but, I'm afraid, rather impossible story." He smiled, that pitying look that Dustfinger hated so much.

"Impossible?" Dustfinger breathed, considering the word. "Oh, yes. That's what I thought, too, at first." His scarred face twisted into a grim half-smile. "That was ten years ago."

The man shrugged, almost apologetically, Dustfinger thought. "Sorry, but the idea is just absurd."

"And that makes me a criminal breaking into a house again, I suppose." Sighing, the fire-eater reached for his backpack. "Let's see how long it takes to persuade you," he suggested, and held up two objects, one in each hand. "Now, will it be fire or the marten?"

As always, any helpful comments or critique are always welcome and appreciated!