She Wanted To Return To Her Dream.

From The Tower Battlements, Dustfinger Looked Down On A Lake As Black As Night, Where The Reflection Of The Castle Swam In A Sea Of Stars. The Wind Passing Over His Unscarred Face Was Cold From The Snow Of The Surrounding Mountains, And Dustfinger Relished Life As If He Were Tasting It For The First Time. The Longing It Brought, And The Desire. All The Bitterness, All The Sweetness, Even If It Was Only For A While, Never For More Than A While, Everything Gained And Lost, Lost And Found Again.

Don't Let It Worry You, Not Being Able To Speak,'dustfinger Had Often Told Her. 'people Tend Not To Listen Anyway, Right?

If You Take A Book With You On A Journey," Mo Had Said When He Put The First One In Her Box, "an Odd Thing Happens: The Book Begins Collecting Your Memories. And Forever After You Have Only To Open That Book To Be Back Where You First Read It. It Will All Come Into Your Mind With The Very First Words: The Sights You Saw In That Place, What It Smelled Like, The Ice Cream You Ate While You Were Reading It... Yes, Books Are Like Flypaper—memories Cling To The Printed Page Better Than Anything Else.

Where Did The Love Come From? What Was It Made Of?

Life Was More Difficult In Inkheart, Yet It Seemed To Meggie That With Every New Day Fenoglio's Story Was Spinning A Magic Spell Around Her Heart, Sticky As A Spider's Web And Enchantingly Beautiful.