![]() ![]() He stood there motionless, arms crossed over his chest as if that might at least warm him a little. The rain was falling on him, but he ignored it. Only his face gleamed white as he looked up at Meggie. The rain cast a kind of pallor on the darkness, and the stranger was little more than a shadow. 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. 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. “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. ![]() Mo had forbidden her to light candles at night. She had a box of matches hidden in the drawer of her bedside table. 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. Its pages rustled promisingly when she opened it. ![]() 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. Meggie had never called her father anything else. “But it only works for children.” Which made Mo tweak her nose. “night.” “Sometimes, yes,” Meggie had said. ![]()
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