Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard , livre ebook

For Mary In good sooth, my love, this is no door . Yet it is a little window, that looketh upon a great world .
PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Auxier, Jonathan, author. Title: Sophie Quire and the last Storyguard / by Jonathan Auxier. Description: New York : Amulet Books, 2016. | Series: A Peter Nimble adventure ; [2] | Summary: Twelve-year-old Sophie knows little beyond the four walls of her father s bookshop, where she repairs old books and dreams of escaping the confines of her dull life. But when a strange boy and his talking cat/horse companion show up with a rare and mysterious book, she finds herself pulled into an adventure beyond anything she has ever read -Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2015039272 | ISBN 9781419717475 (hardback) | eISBN 9781613128381 Subjects: | CYAC: Books and reading-Fiction. | Magic-Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers-Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Action Adventure /General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy Magic. | JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries Detective Stories. Classification: LCC PZ7.A9314 So 2016 | DDC [Fic]-dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015039272
Text and chapter illustrations copyright 2016 Jonathan Auxier Title page illustrations copyright 2016 Gilbert Ford Book design by Chad W. Beckerman
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The most priceless possession of the human race is the wonder of the world. Yet, latterly, the utmost endeavours of mankind have been directed towards the dissipation of that wonder. . . . Nobody, any longer, may hope to entertain an angel unawares, or to meet Sir Lancelot in shining armour on a moonlit road. But what is the use of living in a world devoid of wonderment?
- Kenneth Grahame
Contents
PART ONE WHO
C HAPTER O NE
THE PYRE of PROGRESS
C HAPTER T WO
DEEDS of DERRING-DON T
C HAPTER T HREE
THE BOOKMENDER of BUSTLEBURGH
C HAPTER F OUR
A CURIOUS OFFER
C HAPTER F IVE
THE BOOK of WHO
C HAPTER S IX
NEVER AGAIN!
C HAPTER S EVEN
TROUBLING the DEAD
C HAPTER E IGHT
THE INQUISITOR CALLS
C HAPTER N INE
THE RUNAWAY and the ROGUE
C HAPTER T EN
MADAME ELDRITCH S OUBLIETTE
C HAPTER E LEVEN
THE MANDRAKE
C HAPTER T WELVE
A GIFT
C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
HIGHWAY ROBBERY
PART TWO WHAT
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
THE LOOKING-GLASS LIBRARY
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
TWO WEEKS TIME
C HAPTER S IXTEEN
STUFF and NONSENSE
C HAPTER S EVENTEEN
THE CASE of the RATTLING BOOKCASE
C HAPTER E IGHTEEN
TORVALD KNUCKLEMEAT
C HAPTER N INETEEN
THE BOOK of WHAT
C HAPTER T WENTY
QUICKBRAMBLE
C HAPTER T WENTY-ONE
A COLD RECEPTION
C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO
TRAPPED in the MENAGERIE
C HAPTER T WENTY-THREE
THIEVING WAYS
C HAPTER T WENTY-FOUR
AKRASIA
C HAPTER T WENTY-FIVE
THE NINE-ARMED DEATH
PART THREE WHERE
C HAPTER T WENTY-SIX
INTO the HINTERLANDS
C HAPTER T WENTY-SEVEN
TWO SURVIVORS
C HAPTER T WENTY-EIGHT
THE NIXIES of KETTLE BOG
C HAPTER T WENTY-NINE
BLOOD FOLLOWS
C HAPTER T HIRTY
OLD SOULS
C HAPTER T HIRTY-ONE
THE LIGHTHOUSE at the END of the WORLD
C HAPTER T HIRTY-TWO
VESPERS
C HAPTER T HIRTY-THREE
THE BOOK of WHERE
C HAPTER T HIRTY-FOUR
PLIGHT of the COMMON MAN
C HAPTER T HIRTY-FIVE
BATTLE at the LAST RESORT
C HAPTER T HIRTY-SIX
LOST to the UNCANNYON
PART FOUR WHEN
C HAPTER T HIRTY-SEVEN
THE BOOK of WHEN
C HAPTER T HIRTY-EIGHT
PROMISES
C HAPTER T HIRTY-NINE
PYRE DAY
C HAPTER F ORTY
THE ZEITGEIST
C HAPTER F ORTY-ONE
THE GREATEST THIEF WHO EVER LIVED
C HAPTER F ORTY-TWO
EVERYTHING but the KITCHEN SINK
C HAPTER F ORTY-THREE
THE LAST STORYGUARD
C HAPTER F ORTY-FOUR
ALL CHARMS GUARANTEED
C HAPTER F ORTY-FIVE
THE CITY of TALKING BOOKS
A UTHOR S N OTE
A BOUT THE A UTHOR
PART ONE
WHO
C HAPTER O NE
THE PYRE of PROGRESS

I t has often been said that one should never judge a book by its cover. As any serious reader can tell you, this is terrible advice. Serious readers know the singular pleasure of handling a well-made book-the heft and texture of the case, the rasp of the spine as you lift the cover, the sweet, dusty aroma of yellowed pages as they pass between your fingers. A book is more than a vessel for ideas: It is a living thing in need of love, warmth, and protection.
Few people have ever understood this fact so well as Sophie Quire-a twelve-year-old girl with chewed fingernails, pigeon-toes, and a disturbingly intelligent gaze. Sophie loved books beyond reason. Indeed, she loved them more than she loved the world around her. It was the very thing that made her unique, until it made her dangerous . But we are getting ahead of ourselves, which is also dangerous. So light a lamp and find a comfortable chair, and I will tell you her story.

It was a crisp, windy morning in Bustleburgh-perfect weather for burning books. Thin trails of smoke rose up from chimneys all across the city, raining down flecks of burned paper. A small bell rang above the door as Sophie Quire stepped out from her father s bookshop and into the cold street. She shivered, breathing in the sweet, ashen air. People had taken to burning their old storybooks in their fireplaces to ward off the autumn chill. The smell would have been lovely if it weren t so disheartening. She watched as embers drifted past her and wondered: Were any of those books hers?
Her gaze moved to the door of the shop. Tacked to the lintel was a handbill someone had posted in the night:
NO NONSENSE!
All citizens are compelled to attend the annual Pyre Day ceremony on the twenty-seventh of this month, storybooks in hand . Join your fellow Bustleburghers as we cast off the shackles of childish superstition and boldly march toward a modern, sensible tomorrow!
Sophie tore the poster down before her father could see it. As if either of them needed reminding about Pyre Day.
She wondered what this latest celebration would mean for her father s bookshop, which specialized in the very sort of nonsense that the city seemed determined to destroy. Her father tried to follow the newer fashions, stock only certain types of more improving literature, but what if that wasn t enough? Where would the two of them go if the shop closed altogether? She threw the poster to the ground and pulled her hood over her tangle of black hair. She couldn t waste her time wondering What if-s he had work to do.
Sophie ran through the city, keeping to the smaller streets whenever possible. It was just after dawn, and Bustleburgh was quiet but for a few dockworkers and beggars and sentries finishing their night rounds. She kept her head down as she ran, her hood pulled low over her eyes so as not to attract notice. Most people in Bustleburgh were pale-so pale, you could almost trace the blue veins beneath their skin. Sophie, on the other hand, had dark skin and darker hair, which made her feel like an outsider. These features she had inherited from her mother, who had been born on an island far beyond the continent. Sophie had asked her father the name of the island many times, but her father-as with all questions regarding Sophie s mother-remained maddeningly silent. She sometimes wondered if he even knew the answer.
Sophie passed the inner canal, the academies, the counting-houses, the courts, and even the entrance to the crypts, where her mother had been laid to rest twelve years before. Sometimes, when Sophie felt particularly alone, she would sneak down and visit those forgotten depths.
She continued moving in the direction of the Pyre grounds, which lay just beyond the river. At several points in her journey, she had the sensation of being followed. She even once thought she heard footsteps echoing somewhere behind her, but when she paused to listen, she heard nothing. You re just being a worry-weevil, she muttered to herself as she ran down a narrow staircase that led to the eastern shore.
Sophie, however, was not being a worry-weevil, for at that very moment someone was following her every step-stopping when she stopped, running when she ran. The reason she did not see this someone was because she did not think to expand her view above the streets. If she had, she might have glanced toward the rooflines. And in doing so, she might have noticed the slender figure of a boy crouched behind a chimney, attending her with keen interest. The boy wore a threadbare riding coat and a salt-stained tricorn hat. He clasped in one hand the strap of a canvas satchel, and in the other what appeared to be a very sharp harpoon, its silver point flashing in the early-morning light.
Where Sophie went, the boy followed, hopping silently from roof to roof as easy as you please. And if Sophie had managed to spy this acrobatic pursuer, she would have been struck by one thing above all else:
The boy was wearing a blindfold .

Sophie cut a wide path around the docks until she reached the ancient stone bridge that connected Bustleburgh to the rest of the hinterland empire beyond. She ran past the