Disclaimer: I do not own Inkheart, much to my dismay, nor do I own any of the characters.
Summary: Words have power, often more power than we'd like. Especially when a Silvertongue is involved.

'A room without books is like a body without a soul' - Anon.

Chapter One

For as far back as she could remember, Natasja had loved books.

She could read anywhere at any time, from hanging upside down on the monkey bars, to reading a chapter over a hasty breakfast. Contrary to most, reading in a car or on public transport made her feel relaxed, rather than travelsick.

One of her earliest memories was sitting on her father's lap as she tried to pick out the individual words from The Magician's Nephew, the first book in the Chronicles of Narnia, which he had been reading to her at the time.

By the age of three, she was reading short stories while the rest of the preschool was fighting over building blocks, her mind travelling far away, to wherever the words took her.

Natasja learned to write by copying the words of her favourite book, reading as she went and absorbing the book like a sponge, though her spelling needed occasional work.

It is only in fiction that people never change, or grow older, or die. A child who is only mentioned once, or a story that ends before the child is grown, so that we never know what became of them after, and they are always a child in our minds.

There is Peter Pan and the Lost Boys, but Natasja was not a Lost Boy (or even male, for that matter) and was unlikely to see Never Never Land. She grew up, as Wendy did, maturing into a young woman.

Her movements slowed from the constant motion of a child, and became more co-ordinated. As a child, her voice was one of high-pitched excitability, like the South Wind. As an adult, it became as a lake on a calm day; serene, but conveying so much with the slightest change in tone or inflection.

Many things evolved as she journeyed out of childhood, but the one thing that never changed was her love of books. History, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Adventure, Mystery or a combination of the above, it didn't matter. As long as a book was in a language she understood, Natasja would read it.

She would write, too. An amusing rhyme that popped into her head, or a single line or couplet that developed into a longer poem. Fragments of a dream that carried over to her waking mind, or an occasion or memory that should be immortalized.

A notebook was never far from her hand, and her mother joked that her slender fingers had been built to turn pages and hold a pen. She wove words as a weaver does thread, creating a tapestry of people and events in the form of a story or poem.

If a notebook was never far from her right hand, then a novel was seldom absent from her left. Natasja did not read aloud very often, but when she did, people claimed that she seemed to bring the story to life.

Natasja was twenty-three, and a novice newly-published writer when she discovered the true power of her gift with words. Having the neighbour's loud and annoying cat disappear in front of you while reading Nene Thomas's Zarryiostrom, only to be replaced by an admittedly cute green dragon the size of a large falcon, and who insisted on following her everywhere, had been something of a shock.

The 'Dragon Fiasco' inspired Natasja to a great deal of semi-hysterical questioning of her own sanity. After a mini-breakdown, however, she started experimenting, which resulted in steel-hearted roses (Polgara's wedding gift in The Belgariad) and silver niphrendil (the star-flowers of Lothlorian in Tolkien's Middle-Earth) replacing her dying azalea bushes.

It was the appearance of Brookflow, a particularly talkative otter from Rakkety Tamm, a tale of Redwall, (and hadn't that been an interesting explanation!) however, that finally convinced Natasja that she was not completely insane.

Three months later, she discovered that there was a name for the few people who shared this gift.

Silvertongue.

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A/N: I just finished reading the Inkheart Trilogy in three days in between my hectic work schedule (yes, I'm a fast reader) and this popped into my head as I was attempting to ignore the guy who won't stop hitting on me, and the idiot who keeps asking me about football teams, despite being repeatedly informed that I hate the bloody sport.

The prologue seldom gains much comment, but reviews of any kind are always welcome. Encouragement and Constructive criticism keep me writing and tell me what needs work, while flames give me something to laugh at.

Thanks,
Nat