Hey guys! Thanks so much for the story adds and reviews . You're all awesome ^_^.
Just a quick note to say that Inkheart/world doesn't belong to me. Only the random other characters do. In this case, Rochelle. Also, I haven't actually read Inkspell and I've only skim-read some of Inkdeath and Inkheart so my knowledge of the world is partly my interpretation of medieval-ness, partly from the films and the books. In this fic Dustfinger does have Brianna and Roxanne (spelling?) but he's making his own destiny, as hinted at in the film.
"Fine." She consented, and pulled her cloak around her shoulders when she realised how much skin she was showing. Suddenly she wasn't on a mission anymore and she didn't know what to do next. The girl turned and looked at the man who she was being forced to trust – again. He really did look different. Maybe it was because she was older and he had stayed the same. He had leaned back against the tree, his arms folded across his chest, staring off into the distance. The bright morning sun was shining through the trees dappling his wavy blonde hair and catching in his striking blue eyes. Dustfinger was actually...good-looking. Unnervingly so. He met her gaze then and scrutinised her quite thoroughly back. Just like the first time they'd met. She wondered what he saw. He looked away again and spoke as though there hadn't been a break in conversation.
"I'll take you to one of my landladies. I'm sure she would be happy to put us up; she does me from time to time." He bent to pick up his characteristically meagre, well-worn bag.
"How will we pay her?" Meggie kept up with his long strides as he started down the main path.
"I have my trade, you read and write. I teach you the basics of Inkworld lettering and how to use a quill and you'll be our resident scribe. Unless you have any other talents I should know about?"
"I know a little book-doctoring." She admitted.
"Well that's a bonus. You really are your father's daughter, young Meggie." He smiled at her, an actual open-mouthed proper smile showing straight white teeth. It was a very good look for him, she wished he would smile like that more often.
"It's been six years since you left. Does time pass differently here, or...?"
Dustfinger hesitated for several seconds before answering.
"No, but a lot has happened since then."
"You don't look any different to me. I mean you look different, but you don't seem to have aged at all."
"I don't?" He smiled fleetingly at her again, then was sober, "I feel like I have." Meggie thought perhaps she had pushed her luck with her questions so she was silent for the rest of the walk, contemplating mostly why she was here and what she was going to do. And wondering what Mo and Elenor were doing in her world. If they were finding a way to read her back out.
They reached the city in just under two hours, which for Meggie, was quite a trek. She wasn't overweight in anyone's estimations but she certainly wasn't fit. That was one of the downsides of modern life, she supposed. As they moved swiftly through what she presumed were the back alleys of Inkworld – she didn't really see Dustfinger as the main street type – the man himself kept on shooting her looks out of the corner of his eye. It was almost like he was going to ask her if she was ok, but then he didn't. If he expected her to go all damsel in distress on him he was going to be sorely disappointed. If she was going to be a character in this story she may as well give her best shot at being a strong one. One she'd approve of. One Mo and Elenor would be proud of. It was weird to think of herself in that way. She was starving, though. Trekking on an empty stomach after being sick the night before wasn't really much fun.
"We're nearly there." Muttered the blonde man, as though he wanted to make up for all the random glances. Meggie didn't speak until they stopped in front of a tavern which looked like it had been squeezed into its place; all wiggly lines and awkward beams. A metal sign swung absently from an elaborate hook. 'The Golden Phoenix', it read, with a couple of fire-y feathers painted around it. She smiled, and caught Dustfinger's gaze.
"I can see why you would stay here."
He gave her a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation, then pushed open the door and held it for her. Always the gentleman. She went inside and waited for Dustfinger, who walked past her and up to the bar. She joined him there.
"Rochelle?" He called, waited for a few seconds then tried again.
"Alright, alright!" Came an exasperated female voice, and a woman of about 40 strode out from behind a heavy wooden door to meet them. She was deftly sewing a rip in her sleeve together as she walked, which personally Meggie thought was quite an impressive feat. Rochelle pulled the thread taught and broke it with her teeth in one swift movement. As she did so she smiled widely at them both and tucked the needle and thread into her apron pocket.
"Thought I recognised your voice, Dustfinger, who's the young woman wi'cha?" There was something about her which reminded the blonde girl of a lion. There was a feral quality to the smile that she now directed at Meggie, and she got the impression that she would be a good person to have on her side. Or maybe to be on the good side of. She wasn't sure.
"Meggie," Meggie introduced herself and smiled uncertainly back. Rochelle put her on edge.
"Meggie," The woman repeated thoughtfully, then held out her hand, "I'm Rochelle, as you may've gathered from Dustfinger's caterwauling." She shot the man a look and he had the decency to look at least a little ashamed, even if he didn't mean it. Meggie shook the small but strong callused hand.
"I take it you're after lodging?" She was straight to the point, Rochelle was starting to grow on Meggie already.
"We are," Replied Dustfinger quickly, as though he was afraid Meggie would step in again, "I don't want to put you out – again – but we would really appreciate food and board." Wow, he could be gracious when he wanted to, Meggie was pleased to note. He also looked desperate, which probably helped his cause.
"I see. Well, I happen to have a spare room for the moment. How long will y'be stayin' ?" He looked at Meggie then, who told him with her eyes that she had no idea how long she would be here. Weeks, months...hopefully not years. That thought scared her so she dashed it from her mind quickly and wiped her face clean of fear. Dustfinger's gaze kept hers for a moment too long, then he smiled and turned to Rochelle.
"Not too long." This wasn't really a satisfactory answer, but the innkeeper let it slide. She was obviously used to his secrecy. Or flightiness.
"It's yours," She said, "One show a week, two when I ask. Wh'bout Meggie, she looks a little thin t'be helpin' me out," Rochelle looked Meggie up and down. How she could tell when she was wearing a floor-long cloak, Meggie would never know.
"How old are you, Meggie, if y'don't mind me askin'?"
"Eighteen. And I can read and write. And repair used books, if that's any use." Rochelle's expression was curious.
"Interesting talents f'r a young woman. I may ask for y'help 'round the place if things get busy. Have me own staff, but sometimes that ain't enough. Dustfinger 'ere's no help. 'E can't clean glasses without dropping 'em." Meggie hid a smile at the thought of the tall man trying to polish glasses. Dustfinger narrowed his eyes at Rochelle, and then at Meggie but didn't say anything.
"I can do that."
"Good. Well, that's settled then. If you give me a few minutes I'll get the room sorted. Would y'like a drink while y'wait?" There was that word again. Room. One room. Suddenly Meggie wondered what Rochelle thought her and Dustfinger were. Did she think they were...together?
"Could we have some water sent to our quarters, please?" Rochelle nodded. As the landlady left, the blonde girl turned to the fire-juggler and frowned at him.
"What?" He was confused. Meggie couldn't think of a way to approach the subject without sounding ungrateful, so she left it – for now.
"Nothing."
He frowned back at her, then sat down at the nearest table, his coat pooling around his feet. Wasn't he warm? She supposed he had to be prepared for all weather, travelling around like he did. She took a wooden bar-stool and they waited in silence. This silence thing seemed to be getting fairly common between them. She hoped it wouldn't become a regular occurrence, she wasn't sure she could cope with it 24/7. Luckily, at this point Dustfinger decided to talk.
"So...you were read here?"
"I don't know. I presume so. One second I'm minding my own business, the next I'm in the Castles of Ombre feeling like crap."
"That's it?"
"That's it, sorry." She looked him directly in the eyes. He had very expressive eyes when he wasn't hiding his emotions. At the moment they were confused, troubled. Then he guarded them and they both looked away. Meggie had a moment of hysteria. How did she get here? Stuck in a tavern with Dustfinger, ready to pay her rent in Inkworld. Rochelle came back to the bar and told them the 'room' was ready. Her and Dustfinger got to their feet, thanked her – the man giving her a few coins from a pocket in his great-coat – then climbed the stairs to their living quarters. Thankfully, realised Meggie, when she stood in the doorway and surveyed the place, it was quarters, and not a single tiny room. It was a fairly large open attic space, with a fireplace at the furthest end and a window at either side – both of which were open, letting a fresh breeze waft around them. There was a single comfy-looking chair next to the fireplace, a second more couch-like thing to their left next to a small round table with a wash basin on it and finally a double bed on the right. A separate room accompanied this, in which was a large metal bath and a privacy partition. All in all, Meggie was satisfied, and turned round to thank her companion but he'd disappeared. Oh well, she supposed she should make herself at home.