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
Published in 2016 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.
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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
CHAPTER ONE
THE PYRE of PROGRESS
CHAPTER TWO
DEEDS of DERRING-DON’T
CHAPTER THREE
THE BOOKMENDER of BUSTLEBURGH
CHAPTER FOUR
A CURIOUS OFFER
CHAPTER FIVE
THE BOOK of WHO
CHAPTER SIX
“NEVER AGAIN!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TROUBLING the DEAD
THE INQUISITOR CALLS
CHAPTER NINE
THE RUNAWAY and the ROGUE
CHAPTER TEN
MADAME ELDRITCH’S OUBLIETTE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MANDRAKE
CHAPTER TWELVE
A GIFT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HIGHWAY ROBBERY
PART TWO
WHAT
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE LOOKING-GLASS LIBRARY
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TWO WEEKS’ TIME
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STUFF and NONSENSE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE CASE of the RATTLING BOOKCASE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TORVALD KNUCKLEMEAT
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE BOOK of WHAT
CHAPTER TWENTY
QUICKBRAMBLE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A COLD RECEPTION
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TRAPPED in the MENAGERIE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THIEVING WAYS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AKRASIA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE NINE-ARMED DEATH
PART THREE
WHERE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
INTO the HINTERLANDS
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TWO SURVIVORS
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NIXIES of KETTLE BOG
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BLOOD FOLLOWS
CHAPTER THIRTY
OLD SOULS
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE LIGHTHOUSE at the END of the WORLD
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
VESPERS
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE BOOK of WHERE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
PLIGHT of the COMMON MAN
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BATTLE at the LAST RESORT
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
LOST to the UNCANNYON
PART FOUR
WHEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE BOOK of WHEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
PROMISES
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
PYRE DAY
CHAPTER FORTY
THE ZEITGEIST
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE GREATEST THIEF WHO EVER LIVED
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
EVERYTHING but the KITCHEN SINK
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE LAST STORYGUARD
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ALL CHARMS GUARANTEED
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE CITY of TALKING BOOKS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
WHO
CHAPTER ONE
It 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—she 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 Wolves of Dawn—a pair of massive lupine gargoyles that towered over the Wassail River. It was said that these stone beasts had defended the city from invading armies in ages past. She was half surprised not to see NO NONSENSE! signs looped around their necks. She petted the rightmost wolf paw as she passed, for luck.
Rows of modern gas-burning lamps lined the sides of the bridge, their flames creating an eerie, flickerless glow that reflected off the river far below. On the opposite shore was a clearing encircled by a high stone wall that had been constructed to cut off travel to and from the Grimmwald, a dangerous forest that loomed just beyond the city. Two guards stood at attention at the iron gates, muskets propped against their shoulders. Rising up behind them was the Pyre of Progress—an enormous mountain composed not of rubble but of books.
Bustleburgh, you see, was a city in the midst of a great transformation. For centuries, she had been home to myriad wonders and oddities—creatures and artifacts one might expect to find in fairy tales or nursery rhymes or any number of ballads. In recent years, however, the common folk had become leery of this heritage, and they began to suspect that these stranger elements were in some way holding them back from progressing into the modern world. And thus the No Nonsense movement was born.
For as long as Sophie could remember, every autumn brought a new vote about what type of “nonsense” to burn next. First it was fairy fruit. Then it was any object forged by dwarfs. Then it was any object that talked. Then it was alternative medicines and certain baked goods. Then it was (puzzlingly) windup toys. Then it was clothes that were too bright or flamboyant. Then it was any good imported from a foreign land. Then it was anything deemed too old—tapestries and paintings and spindles. Now, at last, it was storybooks.
For months, guards had been raiding libraries and schoolhouses, gathering up storybooks of all kinds for the annual Pyre Day ceremony. When that day came, Sophie’s bookshop would also be purged. Of course, sensible things such as reference books and scientific periodicals would continue to be sold, but anything silly or frightening or fantastical or the least bit entertaining was to be summarily burned. Many people in Bustleburgh giddily predicted that this would be the largest Pyre to date. As if that were a thing to celebrate.
Perhaps you have heard the famous bit of wisdom about how the making of an omelet requires the breaking of eggs? This philosophy, while technically true, does not account for the fact that omelets are universally disappointing to all who eat them—equal parts water and rubber and slime. Who among us would not prefer a good cobbler or spiced pudding? Sophie often thought that Bustleburgh was not unlike the omelet maker who, having grown obsessed with his task, had decided that all eggs everywhere must be broken at any cost. While she acknowledged the convenience of living in a modern city, she wasn’t sure it was worth the destruction of so many wondrous things . . . especially if those things included books.
Keeping her head down, she snuck off the bridge and approached the edge of the wall. She found a place where the stone had crumbled away to create a hole big enough for a twelve-year-old girl. She wriggled through the gap and pulled herself to her feet.
Sophie dusted off her frock and gazed at the pile of discarded storybooks. Through the early-morning mist, she could see a row of guards unloading wagons of more books near the front gates. A few more guards were distributing stacks of Pyre Day announcements.
Sophie crept toward the nearest wagon and crouched behind its back wheels. She then stood on tiptoe and peered into the bed. She was always surprised to see what sorts of books had been thrown out—often she found stories she remembered selling in her father’s shop. She removed a heavy old book and inspected the cover: It was a tattered collection of tales about Saint Martin the Bruin King. At one time not so long ago, every child in Bustleburgh would have known these stories by heart; now they were consigned to the Pyre. A few pages were torn, and the spine was a bit frayed, but the damage was nothing that couldn’t be repaired.
She reached back into the wagon and found two more interesting books: a slim volume of hinterland nursery rhymes and an annotated treatise on temperaments of the constellations. “Hello,” Sophie whispered. “I’m taking you home.” She gingerly wrapped the books in her cloak.
“You there!” a voice cried from the gates.
Sophie looked up to see a guard pointing straight at her. He was fumbling with a whistle on a chain around his neck. Clutching the books, she raced back toward the wall as fas
t as her feet would carry her. A sharp whistle split the air as guards stormed after her, shouting, “Stop, thief!”
Sophie wriggled back through the narrow hole, tearing her cloak on the edge of a rock. She ran onto the bridge, the books tight against her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the crumbling stone buildings at the far end of the opposite shore: If she could just reach Olde Town, she could easily lose her pursuers in its alleys. She was nearly to the other side when she saw two uniformed men appear at the foot of the bridge—night sentries returning from their rounds.
“Stop her!” the guards from the Pyre cried.
The sentries heard the cry and rushed to block her path. “Halt!” they called, lowering their muskets like spears.
Sophie very nearly ran straight into the points of their sharp bayonets. She collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. The two guards from the Pyre joined their compatriots, and now Sophie found herself surrounded. “On your feet,” the one who had first spotted her said, jabbing his bayonet to show he meant business. “Drop the nonsense.”
Sophie stood, but she did not let go of the books. She cast an irritated glance at the giant wolf statues towering over the bridge. So much for good luck. She edged toward the stone railing, briefly wondering if she might be able to swim to safety. She was a strong swimmer, but the stone walls along the river were too high to climb—between the current and the temperature, she would probably freeze before getting to the docks. And even if she did survive, the books would not.
A fifth man approached from the direction of the Pyre. “At ease,” he said in a sinewy voice. Sophie peered out from her hood to see a rail-thin man wearing an immaculately tailored blue coat and wielding a polished ebony walking stick that clicked against the cobblestones.
The soldiers stepped back and saluted the man. “I-I-Inquisitor Prigg,” said the first guard, clearly nervous. “I didn’t know you were up and about this early.”
“Progress never sleeps,” he said coolly. “And neither do I.” Inquisitor Prigg was known far and wide as the architect of the No Nonsense efforts. He undertook this task with a zeal that seemed almost superhuman, documenting every single object that went onto the Pyre. The man stepped in front of Sophie, who kept her head down. “Let’s have a look at our thief.” He lifted Sophie’s hood with the tip of his cane.