Inkheart Fanfic

Cynthia was a story teller. A shy girl by nature, she hid behind wire framed spectacles and baggy jumpers and stories, and although "story teller" was not her official title, she liked to think it was. She would read to her neices and nephew, she would read to her cousin and she would read to the children who came to the library for story time. Her day job, dreary as it may seem, was in the library, at the desk, for she liked to be surrounded by printed words and the smell of books.
It was at her desk, quietly pondering the hidden realms behind each spine, that she first saw him. He was not an young man and not an old one, although he moved with a certain amount of weariness. A boy, by Cynthia's estimations no more than sixteen, followed him into the library like a puppy. The man looked shifty, and for a moment Cynthia was worried that he was hiding a bomb beneath his long coat, but the worry soon passed. She wondered what relation the boy was to the man, perhaps they were father and son, but the boy was Arabian and the man was pale with ginger hair. All the same, thought Cynthia, the boy could easily have an Arabian mother, or he could be adopted. They both had shoulder length hair, although the boy's was curly and tangled, so they probably had the same hairdresser, she reasoned.
Distracted by the family she was creating in her head (maybe the boy had a younger sister who had inherited their father's eyes) she didn't even notice the pair aproach the desk.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," said the man, and he did look sorry, but he also looked desperate, "but are you Cynthia Lancaster?"
Cynthia looked at the man's face, disfigured by three long scars across his cheek. She blinked, "Who wants to know?"
"Me," he replied, somewhat unhelpfully.
"If I was Cynthia Lancaster, and I'm not saying I am, but if I was, why would you be looking for me?"
"We've been lead to believe that she could help us with something."
"What sort of something?"
"Reading," said the man, but Cynthia knew what he meant. Sometimes, things came out of the books that she read, unexplainable things. She was shocked.
"Who told you?" she whispered, leaning over the desk.
The man smiled for the first time, "I can't say. There was a trail and I followed it here. So I take it you are she?"
Cynthia stole a glance at the boy, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable."I am she," she said, baffled by the unusual syntax.
The boy suddenly gained energy, prodding his companion, "You see, Dustfinger? I told you we'd find her! I told you we'd find someone!"
"Damn it, Farid, be quiet," the man, Dustfinger, snapped. The boy fell silent. Cynthia saw how crushing Dustfinger's words were too him.
The man looked around him, "Is it possible we could meet somewhere private? Doing this here may cause some ... difficulties."
"I haven't said I'll do anything!"
"Just reading," said Dustfinger hastily, "We have money. I just - I'd rather not discuss this in such a public place."
Cynthia would have liked to tell them to get out, tell them she would call the police. She would have liked to do what her fear was telling her to do but all she saw was the desparation of the man in front of her, and by extension that of the boy.
"Alright," she said, scribbing on a scrap of paper, "Come to my house. Tonight. Eight o clock. Here's my address. Tell me what you want then, and I'll do my best."
"Thankyou," said Dustfinger
"Yes, thankyou... you are as kind as you are beautiful," fluttered Farid. Dustfinger dealt him a blow to the head.
"Leave the woman alone, Farid!" Cynthia heard him say as he pushed the boy out of the library door. She could feel herself blushing, despite being far too old to be the object of Farid's affections.
Cynthia Lancaster had just invited two strangers into her home, and it would change her life.