Fearless (Mirrorworld) - By Cornelia Funke Page 0,38

living room without saying a word. His late mother’s portrait hung above the fireplace, and on the piano, next to a photograph of his father, was one of him and Jacob.

‘What are you doing here? I thought I made myself clear.’ Dunbar leant the rifle against the wall. He listened into the dark hallway before closing the door. His father lived with him. Jacob had told her that the old Fir Darrig hardly left the house. Anyone would have eventually grown tired of being stared at all the time. There were still a few hundred Fir Darrigs in Eire, but here in Albion they were as rare as a warm summer.

Fox ran her fingers over the spines of the books, which surrounded Dunbar at home just as they did at the university. There had never been a single book in the house where she grew up. It was Jacob who’d taught her to love them.

‘So you now need a rifle if you’ve got a Fir Darrig in your house and in your blood?’

‘Let’s just say it’s better to be safe than sorry. But I’ve never had to use it. I’m still not sure whether rifles were a good invention or not. I guess that’s the question with any invention, but I do feel it’s a question one has to ask too often these days.’ He looked at Fox. ‘We’re both stuck between the times, aren’t we? We’re wearing the past on our skins, but the future is too loud to be ignored. What has been and what will be. What is being lost and what is being gained . . .’

Dunbar was a wise man – wiser than any man Fox knew – and on any other night, Fox would have loved nothing more than listening to him explain the world to her. But not on this night.

‘I am here so Jacob won’t be lost, Dunbar.’

‘Jacob?’ Dunbar laughed out loud. ‘Even if the whole world were lost, he’d just find himself another one.’

‘That wouldn’t help him. He’ll be dead in a few months if we don’t find the crossbow.’

Dunbar had his father’s cat-eyes. Like foxes, Fir Darrigs were creatures of the night. Fox could only hope those eyes could see she wasn’t lying.

‘Please, Dunbar. Tell me where the head is.’

The living room filled with thick silence. Tears might have helped, but she could never cry when she was afraid.

‘Of course. The third shot . . . Guismond’s younger son.’ Dunbar went to the piano and touched the keys. ‘Is he that desperate, that he puts his hope into some half-forgotten legend?’

‘He’s tried everything else.’

Dunbar struck a key, and in that single note Fox heard all the sadness of the world. This was not a good night.

‘So the Red Fairy found him?’

‘He went back to her himself.’

Dunbar shook his head. ‘Then he doesn’t deserve better.’

‘He did it for his brother.’ Talk, Fox. Dunbar believed in words. He lived among them. But the Fairy’s moth was eating Jacob’s heart, and there were no words to stop it.

‘Please!’ For a brief moment, Fox was tempted to point the rifle at Dunbar’s chest. The things fear made you do. And love.

Dunbar looked at the rifle as though he’d guessed her thoughts. ‘I nearly forgot I’m talking to a vixen. Your human form is so misleading, though it suits you very well.’

Fox felt herself blush.

Dunbar smiled, but his face quickly turned serious again. ‘I don’t know where the head is.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘Really? And who says so?’

‘The vixen.’

‘Then let’s put it this way. I don’t know exactly, but I have a hunch.’ He picked up the rifle and stroked its long barrel. ‘The crossbow is worth a hundred thousand rifles like this. One single shot will turn the man who wields it into a mass murderer. I’m sure they’ll come up with machines that can do the same soon enough. The new magic is the old magic. The same goals, the same greed . . .’

Dunbar took aim at Fox – then he lowered the rifle.

‘I need your word. By the fur you’re wearing. By Jacob’s life. By all that’s holy to you, that he will not sell the crossbow.’

‘I’ll leave you my fur as a bond.’ No words had ever been more difficult to say.

Dunbar shook his head. ‘No. I won’t ask that much.’

A head poked around the living-room door. The rat-snout was grey, and the cat-eyes were clouded by age.

Dunbar turned around with a sigh. ‘Father! Why aren’t you sleeping?’ He led the old