by Lisa DeSelm
“Don’t worry, Papa. We’ll finish in time. I was just going to get started when that vile man came in. I’ll work all day today, all night. We still have plenty of time if we just keep going.”
Papa sighs. “What would I do without you, Poppet?” He tweaks my chin affectionately. “Now, I am much better today … much better. Let me go put my apron on and I will join you.”
He leaves me, passing through the curtain into the workshop. I wait a moment making sure he’s busied himself before reaching down to slip the clog off my aching foot. A patch of red blooms on the arch of my wooden shoe.
You cannot afford to be so reckless, I berate myself.
Easing off my stocking and using my fingers as pliers, I wrench a splinter the size of a needle from my foot, teeth gritted all the while to keep from crying out. I’m grateful this one appeared in a place that’s easy enough to conceal. I’m not always so lucky.
For every falsehood that passes my lips, a splinter pierces my skin. They’ve appeared jutting out of my hand like a claw or piercing my cheek like a thorn trying to escape. I never know where they’ll surface. It’s a curse that’s difficult to hide, especially when all I’ve ever longed for was to blend in.
When I was newly made, what others mistook for shyness was me drinking in the language and the new faces, the strange customs of humanity. And it was me afraid of being caught in a lie, afraid of losing all I held dear, my short, wonderful life as a girl ending behind bars or in a pile of ashes.
Regretfully, I drop the splinter in my pocket. I keep each and every one, a reminder of the lies I’ve told, some innocent, some not so. I hide them, wrapped in a bit of cloth beneath my pillow. As a punishment, I force myself to revisit the past and remember whenever a new one is added to their number, mementos of my own cursed frailty.
I must be more careful.
What would become of us if we couldn’t fulfill the Margrave’s orders? I shudder to think of being indentured in the Margrave’s household in order to pay off our debts. Or of watching my father be dragged away to Wolfspire Keep, taken from Curio and his work—all the things he loves most. I cannot allow that to happen. Gephardt Leiter might be the puppetmaster, but I am Pirouette, a girl whose heart is made of stronger stuff than flesh and blood.
CHAPTER 5
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, I WAKE TO THE TEAKETTLE WHISTLING A sharp welcome from our little kitchen. Papa must be up already. He’s barely slept again, I think. I feel as though I’ve hardly passed a wink. Next door, the familiar hum and shuffle of eight Sorens moving about their kitchen and shop is unmistakable.
Groaning, I push back my coverlet and go to my small dormer. I watch the sun break over Tavia, a golden yolk shimmering slowly in a frying pan. This time of day, the brown peaks of thatched and tiled roofs glisten with dew. The streets yawn after a brief respite from the trample of hooves, boots, and rickety wheels.
The kettle whistles on, and I wonder if my father is already too absorbed in work to hear it. I fling open my ancient wardrobe and pluck a clean dress off a peg. Bran likes to tease me because I could have my pick of leftover fabrics from The Golden Needle, which he or the tailor could cleverly shape into pretty dresses for me, but I always choose the same color: green. I possess three dresses, two for everyday and one for special occasions. They’re all green.
“Make sure to give the girl some pockets, Bran,” the tailor noted when I ordered them. “Pockets are like pins and needles, you can never have too many! Especially if you’re a maker.”
Thanks to him, my green dresses were delivered with some very handy pockets, sewn so artfully the casual observer could hardly see them. But that was last year, back when I had time to think of such frivolities, before the Margrave arrived at our doorstep, arrayed in his carriage with the von Eidle crest emblazoned like a scorch mark upon the side.
I quickly shuck my nightgown and pull a clean dress over my head, in front of the mirror on the door of my wardrobe, an antiquated piece of glass that belonged to the woman who might have been my mother.
I sweep my bangs out of my eyes and hastily run a brush through my hair. I keep it nicked short, at least compared to the way most Tavian women wear theirs. Anytime it grows, which is rare since it grows as slow as moss, I feel compelled to cut it to my chin, leaving my neck and shoulders free to breathe. Having a wad of hair plaited or tied up on my head only makes my scalp ache. I swipe at a smudge of paint on my cheek, leftover from yesterday, and vow to take care of that with fresh water from the kettle that is still sounding its alarm.
“Papa! The kettle!” I yell, hoping he hears me and will take care of the incessant squeal.
I stare at my face in the glass a second longer, marveling at the fact that it exists. Large, dark eyes look out from under their rim of long eyelashes. A pair of eyebrows arch slightly over high cheekbones. A straight, long nose—a little too long for my liking. A small mouth, turned up slightly at the edges. But I can’t complain. A tree never considers such things; it’s needless, for its entire anatomy is the way that it breathes, eats, and drinks in the world.
I tear myself away from my own reflection and slip my feet into my work clogs, clattering down the stairs past my father’s small, empty bedroom and our little sitting room that we rarely find occasion to actually sit in. I burst into the kitchen to rescue the furious kettle from the stovetop. Papa is nowhere to be seen.
My ears strain for the familiar chipping noises of the chisel or the soft scrape of sanding or the creak of a stool, but the workshop is dead quiet.
Perhaps he’s finally taking a break.
I run downstairs, quickly darting between the workbenches strewn with the remains of a soldier’s legs, the matched pair torn asunder at the hips. The lanterns burn low, like they’ve been on all night. I dash back up the stairs. The kitchen is deserted. Papa’s bed appears unslept in. Returning below, I wander around, looking for clues. He’s hardly left Curio in days. Last night, when I came up, he still labored over a new block of wood, just beginning to carve a soldier’s head.
That block is still in its vise, but now I see that it boasts an unfamiliar blade sunk deep into the newly carved forehead. I gasp, my heart beating in my ears; it’s a short, thick knife, made for utilitarian purposes, like skinning a deer or a gutting a pig. And beneath the blade flutters a note.
We, the Office of the Purser of the Honorable Margrave Erling von Eidle, do render our account with Gephardt Leiter, Puppetmaster, Proprietor of ‘Curio,’ null and void due to incomplete fulfillment of Order No. 009, for one dozen (qty. 12) full-size, timbered guards. Monetary payment for this order will be withheld until its completion. The proprietor has been summoned to Wolf spire Hall, and will be held in arrears, until such time as his order is completed, or the Honorable Margrave is satisfied at his recompense.
-Baldrik Engleborden, Steward, Office of the Purser
My eyes take in the arrogant scrawling signature. My father has been what—summoned? Taken? I didn’t even hear anything out of the ordinary this morning while I slept, I was so tired. And we still have several days left, according to the Margrave’s original order. We aren’t late yet. I am sure of it.
Aren’t I?
Nothing else in the workshop seems amiss, except for the foreign blade. Prying it from the head, I slip both blade and note into a deep pocket of my apron and scurry into the storefront.
Hastily, I scroll back through our worn ledger and can see no further notations about this order, no changes made in my father’s wiry hand. The order in the ledger still says we have nearly a week left.
Since we first received the Margrave’s commission and the promise of more, Papa’s been so obsessed with the idea of getting ahead, of putting money away for tomorrow that I fear he never actually thought what might happen if he couldn’t complete the task.
Behind the counter, I flip open a chest shoved in the back where my father keeps old paperwork as well as orders and bills of receipt. Rifling through the papers, my pulse plummet
s when I come to one from a few weeks ago. It’s the full order for the current batch of soldiers: Number 009. It was stuffed far down in the pile, a weak attempt to hide it from me. My heart drops.
Noted at the bottom in smeared ink, as if the writer couldn’t wait for it to dry, is an added clause in the steward’s hand. It adjusts the date and marks the order due today for double the pay.
Why did my father sign off on this? We could barely keep up with the demand as it was! Guilt washes over me. Why hadn’t I kept better watch on him? He must have consented to it when I was out to the marktplatz, for I would have pleaded with him to come to a more reasonable agreement had I been there.
In fairness, I’m not sure my father had much choice—those who disagree with Erling von Eidle don’t usually fare well. Though we’ve yet to receive a penny for this most recent order, I’m coming to understand the Margrave sees everything in Tavia as his already. He may consider us already in his debt.
What can I do? I cannot call for the Margrave’s guards, for they are most likely the ones responsible for taking him away. With shaking hands, I sling on my cloak and lock up Curio. I dart quickly past The Golden Needle, not wanting to bother the Sorens until I know more.
I run through the main thoroughfare, past the marktplatz, my anger fairly shimmering off me on the path to the lower gates of Wolfspire Hall. I’ve heard it said that long before this Margrave’s time, the first Margrave of Tavia kept wild wolves chained at the gates. Thus the name of the von Eidle’s inherited residence, with its towering black spires. These days, the wolves at the gates are long dead. Now I worry the real danger is alive and well within.
When I arrive, the broad gate is locked with a chain and a padlock the size of my head. The two guards standing at attention inside it eye me, clearly bored.
“I must speak to the steward. About Gephardt Leiter, the puppetmaster. It’s urgent.” I flash them the note.
“You’re too late,” one of them replies. “He was brought in earlier this mornin’ but the steward isn’t hearing any more complaints today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
I argue with the dimwitted guards, but in the end, the exercise is futile. This infernal gate is as close as I will get to Papa today. Banging my fist against it in exasperation, I do the only thing I can think of. I turn and run, as fast as my wooden-feeling legs will take me, back to The Golden Needle.
“But how could they take Gephardt to that awful place?” Gita says, aghast. “The good puppetmaster? He’s been looking so worn as it is!”
I drop my head, ashamed I haven’t kept a better eye on him, that I haven’t forced him take more breaks or seen that he actually ate. He’s always been the one taking care of me.
“We didn’t see the guards either, Piro, they must have come before first light, surprising Gep at his workbench. And if they won’t let you in, his own daughter, there’s nothing that can be done until tomorrow,” Tailor Soren replies, his lips tight. “I’m so sorry, Piro. It seems you might as well go home and rest. Gita will bring you by something to eat.”
“I don’t need to rest, I’m fine,” I say, and at those well-worn words, I feel the pinprick of a sliver nudge from somewhere inside my palm. Not a lie, exactly, but not the truth either, Pirouette.
I must slow down, be careful, mind my speech. I don’t want the tailor and Bran finding out anything they shouldn’t because I’m too weary to stick to the truth.
“There’s no shame in rest, Pirouette. You and Gep are more than entitled to it, after the hours you’ve been putting in. Rest a little,” he says, taking in the shadows under my eyes and the way I’m cracking my knuckles, snapping each joint like nervous twigs.
The tailor himself droops with weariness, more so than I’ve ever seen. It’s a strange sight for a man who normally flits around his shop with the stamina of a hummingbird, seeing to everyone and everything with a large dose of exuberance. I’ve been so caught up in our work that I forget others are spending late nights laboring over their own workbenches, backs similarly bent under the weight of the Margrave’s tasks.
“Thank you, but I must get back to the workshop. There are still four soldiers left to be finished, and if Papa can’t complete them, then I shall.”
“Piro,” Bran begins to scold, but is silenced by a sharp look from his father.
“Yes, Pirouette. If you feel ready, get a head start on your work for today. That will make Gep feel a little lighter when you see him tomorrow, I am sure.”
I nod at him, grateful he understands. I must finish the task set before us.
When I return to Curio I leave the front door to the store open, just like I would on any other day, in case a customer comes in. We can always use the extra francs. Wrapping a heavy work apron over my dress, I tuck my hair behind one ear and a freshly sharpened pencil behind the other and get to work.
Soon I am carving away at a soldier’s legs, neatly blotting out the events of the morning, lost in the rhythm of my chisel and hammer striking away at the curve of the calf and the anchor of the knee. The wood we use for these soldiers is different than the typical linden we use for smaller marionettes. The Margrave’s men are all made of halsa, a lighter wood that carves with far more ease than a traditional hardwood. Even so, each piece and part of the soldier is time-consuming, especially at their size. When complete, each one stands nearly a head taller than I do.
I don’t allow my eyes to linger on the sleeping body of a woodland sprite I started carving months ago, now gathering dust. Even without looking, I know the fairy queen’s head rests like a plum on her abdomen, waiting for me to smooth and refine its crude features. My fingers itch to pick her up and keep going.
I find it difficult to summon any joy in shaping this hulking mold of a soldier, who will be delivered to the castle on the hill, pass through its foreboding gates and then become—who knows?
By late afternoon I’ve finished the lower half of the soldier I started with, and I’m about to begin on the upper when Gita appears at the door with a basket.
“Piro, I’ve brought some supper. Come and eat.”
“Still have more to do,” I say, swiping at my forehead with the back of a dusty hand.
“That great oaf’s not going anywhere,” she says with a nod to the man under my chisel. “He can wait.”
Ruling our small kitchen upstairs as if it were her own, Gita ladles me a bowl of roasted potato stew. I feel pitifully grateful, not even realizing how hungry I am until the first mouthful slides down my throat, creamy and hot. By my experience of her, she is a mother to beat all mothers, both stern and sweet. Her entire brood, including the tailor, adores her.
She sits down, calmly watching my face, her eyes probing in the way I’ve observed some mothers have. I’m unaccustomed to it and it sets my nerves on edge. I avert my eyes and focus on my bowl, trailing my spoon around the edge after every mouthful.
“Do you need anything else, Piro?”
“No, thank you. The stew is delicious.”
She smiles. “I wasn’t speaking about your supper.”
“Oh.”
Gita waits patiently.
“We’re fine, Gita. Thank you. We’ll be all right,” I reassure her.
Leaning forward, she places a thin but sturdy hand on my arm. Her eyes refuse to shirk mine.
“Sometimes, Piro, when difficulties come, our first instinct is to manage everything ourselves—the work, the worry. All of it. That’s how we survive. We try to lift it all on our own shoulders. And you and Gep, I know you have survived great difficulties before.”
I blink, feeling overwhelmed by her quick assessment of my situation and the reminder that she believes my own mother is long dead. Is this what it’s like, having a mother of your own? A pair of eyes that cut straight to the root of a problem before you even know how to form your own thoughts? I swallow another mouthful of stew.
“What I’m trying to say is, the tailor and I want you to know you’re not alone. You and Gep are
part of our family, not just our Guild family, but honorary Sorens, if you will.” She refills my mug from a pitcher on the table without my asking. “And we will help you and your father all we can. I’m sure he’ll be back in the workshop before you know it. And if he won’t slow down, I’ll give him a few orders of my own,” she says with a wink and a squeeze of my arm.
When the warm imprint of her hand disappears and she turns back to the stove, I am struck by how immediately I feel its absence. Bran doesn’t know how lucky he is.
After eating two full bowls of stew, I wipe my mouth and make quick work of dropping my dish into a waiting basin of soapy water.
“I’m heading back down. Thank you for the soup.”
“’Course. I’m always glad for a few minutes away from my sewing. Though the Margrave may have a thing or two to say if the dozens of seams we have left remain unfinished,” Gita says, grimacing as she packs her basket.
“Well, I may have a thing or two to say to the bloody Margrave,” I mutter under my breath as we trundle down the steps to the workshop.
“You and me both, girl.”
After a full day of work, I journey through the twilight to Wolfspire Hall’s locked gate. I want to see my father as soon as possible tomorrow. The guards pay me no mind this time, leaving me to draw my hood and rest against one of the broad stone pillars anchoring the gate. I sink down against the stones, a cloaked puddle of frustration and worry. A large willow within the gates sighs with pity.
“Sleep if you can, while you can,” it shushes. “Sleep while you can.”
CHAPTER 6
BEFORE THE SUN’S FIRST RAYS APPEAR, THE GRATING SOUND OF the opening gate stirs me from a bad dream. I dreamt the wooden soldiers ran through the streets of Tavia. They ran with jerky, stilted legs across the uneven lanes, their arms pumping rigidly, eyes fixed on the forest beyond. Bewildered, I watched them go, afraid of what their loss meant for Curio yet half-sympathizing with their desire to return to the place from which they came. The poor things didn’t know that once you were chopped down and carved up you could never be made whole again. There was no returning to what they were. My father screamed, calling for them to stay, while I silently cheered for them to go, wishing to never see scrap nor splinter of them again.