The Puppetmaster's Apprentice

by Lisa DeSelm

  “So?” I say. “The physician probably has his own quarters at Wolfspire Hall, what with the duke’s recurring illness and now the Margrave living past his prime, as entitled men are wont to do.”

  Fonso shakes his head. “When you know something real worth broodin’ about, I’ll join in. Until then, don’t be putting more on Emmitt’s shoulders, he’s got a heavy enough load to carry as it is. Don’t go making it worse with your speculatin’ about the Margrave dying and him deserving the territory seat. It’s a bunch of bosh. And you’d all best watch your tongues about it.

  “I heard Peter Baden, the saddler, got hauled off to the Keep for runnin’ his big mouth at a game of stones the other night. Rambling on about the rising price of ale and how it’s all the Margrave’s fault. Which,” he says, leaning in with a whisper, “you and I may know is true, but lately it isn’t safe to be going on about. The Margrave has ears in every corner, maybe even in The Louse and Flea.” He casts a wary glance about. A few uniformed guards sit at a table far on the other side of the room, deep in their cups.

  “Well I hope his repulsive ears are burning right this very minute,” Nan says imperiously, “knowing that we’re talking ‘bout him. Fine, if you’re not going to let me meddle with Emmitt and what could be, I’ll just have to meddle elsewhere. So, what’s going on between you two?” Nan says pointedly to Bran and I.

  Bran avoids my panicked gaze and looks innocently at Nan. “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes narrow. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Golden Boy. The fog between you two is thick enough to cut with a knife.”

  I choke on my water, my face turning crimson. Bran looks at me quizzically, now assuming I’ve told her about our argument. I haven’t, truly, Nan is just frustratingly observant.

  Fonso slaps me helpfully on the back to clear my cough. “Nan,” his booming voice warns.

  “Well, she’s clearly not herself, and I think it has something to do with Bran, just as much as it does with the fact that our ogre of a Margrave has her father penned up in the Keep. Did you say or do something to upset Piro?” She glares at Bran accusingly.

  “Well,” Bran stutters, looking from Nan to me. “I—”

  “No!” I croak, having found my voice again. “He didn’t say anything. I’m not upset! Everything’s fine with Bran and me. I’m just really tired, Nan, that’s all. Not feeling quite myself tonight, just as you said.”

  A painful hiccup erupts from my throat. Nan watches us both suspiciously. With a groan, I realize I’ll pay for my hasty words. Inwardly, I curse my carelessness as a splinter the size of a carpenter’s nail protrudes suddenly and painfully from my ear. I try to cover it up with another sharp hiccup and a casual sweep of my hair, but Nan’s raven-sharp eyes don’t miss it. My stomach plummets as she reaches out a hand toward me.

  “Piro! You’ve got a bit of wood, caught in your hair. And you’re bleeding, besides! Great blazes! How on earth did that happen?”

  All eyes at our table and the tables next to us are now on me, on my burning face and the ugly splinter that’s mysteriously found itself tangled in my hair. Nan’s fingers gently pry the splinter free and lay it carefully on the table in front of me. Using a corner of her apron, she dabs at the blood on my ear, studying me, too close for comfort. Tiffin looks confused and Fonso awkwardly clears his throat, unsure of what just happened.

  “Here, let me get rid of that,” Bran says, reaching to brush the bit of wood away and toss it into the fireplace behind us.

  “No!” I bark in a strangled voice, snatching it first. “No, it’s just a splinter. A hazard of the job, you know!” I try to laugh it off and distract them as I secretly shove it deep into my pocket. I’m compelled to keep it, to save it along with the other tokens of my wretchedness. Cheeks still aflame, I take another big gulp of water in an effort to wash down the dry lump of fear in my throat.

  Feeling too exposed, I stand up so fast I feel dizzy. “Well, I should really be heading back to Curio now. So much to do.”

  Nan doesn’t say anything for once, just continues looking from me to Bran, watching us both cautiously.

  “I suppose we should go as well.” Fonso leaps to his feet in an effort to help me. “I have an unfinished pair of lanterns I’m trussing up for my cousin, Marco. Remember, the one who works in the kitchens at Wolfspire Hall? Delicate work, you know, lantern glass,” he declares. He drains his mug, wiping his hands against his shirt.

  “Nanette Li, may I walk you to your studio?”

  Nan clears her throat. “I certainly don’t require leading about like a horse with a bit.” She sniffs. “But yes, you may walk with me. I should get back, too,” she says, slinging her long braid over her shoulder the way some toss salt for good luck. “Look after that cut, Piro,” she says, with a squeeze of my hand on her way out. She pauses to turn around and glare at Bran.

  “You’ll make sure she gets home in one piece, won’t you?”

  He nods, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “I’m done, too,” Tiffin says, slapping some penny francs down on the table for Gert. “Cheers,” he says dismally, following Nan’s lithe back and Fonso’s formidable one out the door.

  That leaves me and Bran, now unable to avoid one another, no cupboard door to separate us.

  “So,” he says, a strained look upon his face. “Shall we go?”

  Outside, evening light bathes the tops of the tight and twisty lanes, the setting sun casting thick golden strokes across the thatched cottages. Bran is quiet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes down. Still, every housewife sweeping the day’s dust from the stoop and every flower girl packing up her cart calls to him as we pass. He barely seems to notice the constant flow of attention coming his way, wave after wave of it, walking through the heart of town. I’ve lived here longer than he has, and no one calls to me that way.

  We walk without speaking, soon finding ourselves at the divide between Curio and The Golden Needle, in that narrow space of a few bricks between our homes. The corners of my mouth can’t help but turn up at the sight of several curious little Sorens peering at us through the window.

  “I should really get back to work.”

  “See you later then?” He bites his lip, his eyes hinting at the cupboard.

  “Er—” I falter, thinking of all the work that awaits me. “I don’t know.”

  He sits down on Curio’s front step. “What’s going on, Piro?”

  “Nothing” is on my lips, but I can’t risk another splinter tonight.

  “You mean, besides my father rotting in a cell?” I retort.

  Bran exhales sharply and shakes his head. “I know. I mean, yes, besides that. Truly, Pirouette, I never meant to upset you yesterday. I’m worried for you and Gephardt. We all are. I can’t stand thinking of him in that terrible place, or of you joining him. And, it’s just, with you and me, I can’t bear to lose—”

  “Bran, I’m sorry I didn’t open the cupboard. I’m just worn out. I need this wooden soldier business to be over, so Papa can come home. Then I’ll be able to breathe again.”

  His eyes search mine. “That’s all?”

  I drop down to sit beside him and squeeze his hand.

  “I worry, because I love you,” he says simply. “I love you, Pirouette Leiter. Do you think that you love me, too?”

  When he leans in, the streets around us shrink like coals in the fire until there is only the ember of me and Bran, here on the stoop, burning in the dim, purple light. And in the one moment when I should have answered truthfully, I find my words stick and my tongue is unable to answer back.

  I fall into him instead, my hands tracing the beautiful craftsmanship of his jaw, my lips pressing against his. I am shocked by how soft they feel and how much better a kiss is than a common little word like “yes.” This kiss is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. A fire and a rushing river compete for space in my veins, sending rivulets of joy down to my toes.

  When Bran reluctantly leans back, my lips m
iss his instantly. He stands, pulling me up with him.

  “It’s getting dark. We should go in. You know what they say.”

  “No, what do they say?”

  Bran grins. “‘Never trust what might happen with a beautiful girl under the moonlight. Might get moonstruck!’”

  I nod, brushing a finger across my swollen lips as my heart attempts to recover its regular rhythm. Somehow I must return to work after this. I’m not sure it’s possible.

  “See you later?” he raises an eyebrow.

  I’ll be tired, but I can’t wait to see him again, even if it’s just a glimpse through the cupboard.

  “Yes. Same as always.”

  “Always,” he says happily, planting a soft kiss on the back of my hand before slipping through his front door.

  Like his mirror image, I follow, dodging into mine. I’m unable to suppress the hope that “always” will be repeated again, and soon.

  CHAPTER 8

  “THE WOODS MAKE ME UNEASY,” BRAN ADMITS AS HE AND I leave Burl behind on the main road with the wood-hauling sleigh. It won’t fit among the close-knit trees this deep in the forest.

  “There’s something about these woods, in particular … before we came to Tavia, I’d always lived in a town, and we were surrounded by hills and valleys, not a shroud of trees like we are here.”

  “Mmhmm,” I murmur in agreement. There is something about these woods. Something Bran can’t possibly understand. These woods are my roots. The very fiber of my being.

  “Well, you did insist on coming,” I reply, trying to swallow the edge that found its way into my voice. It isn’t that I don’t want Bran’s help or his company, but when it comes to the woods, I prefer to be alone or with my father. It’s our special place.

  Bran follows me, lagging behind as I pick my way through the underbrush with a light step, easily weaving in and out among the great oaks, chestnuts, lindens, and halsa that stand sentry around the land of Tavia. I’m looking for a particular stand of trees from my last trip here with Papa. And, though I don’t say so aloud, I’m looking for signs of his presence—a deftly peeled blaze of bark on a tree tagging it for harvest, or a broken branch signifying a directional marker.

  Finally, I see what I am seeking: a trio of blazes on a set of three good-sized halsas that will be perfect for completing the Margrave’s order. Bran’s eyes grow wide.

  “You’re going to take those down? All three?”

  “And you’re going to help me haul them back to the wagon,” I say with a smile, brandishing the finely sharpened axe I carry on my belt.

  “Can I help with the chopping?” he asks, stepping up to survey the leafy canopy above us.

  “No, thank you. The halsa’s grain is light and delicate, almost like a thick trunk of honeycomb. That’s what makes it ideal for carving and toting such large pieces about; if we built the soldiers out of oak, a person would scarcely be able to lift one. I’d better do it, to preserve as much good wood as possible.”

  He nods and stands behind me to watch.

  Before I make the first swing, I lay the palm of my hand over the blaze on the creamy inner skin of the halsa closest me, where it shows through the long scrape of gray bark. My father was the last person to touch this tree. Pressing my palm to the wood, I bow my head and close my eyes, quietly thanking the tree for the life it’s about to give, and for the rescue I hope it will provide.

  In return, I hear it’s humble acquiescence, “You are welcome, sister.” The reply tingles up my arm in a buzzing ache, the same strange pain that comes when you strike that tender part below your elbow my father claims is a funny bone. It never feels funny to me.

  Bran’s eyes are on me, curious. When I’m ready, I position both hands on the axe and let it swing in a graceful arc toward the base of the tree. It takes me longer than my father, but after many sure strokes I have the tree chipped away in a neat angle to its core. Sheathing the axe, I push with both arms against the trunk. The tree falls, landing with a hollow thud onto the forest floor, right where I intended.

  Breathing hard, I turn around to face Bran.

  “Right. You’re up. Move that one out of the way while I begin the next.”

  With a serious face, Bran nods and goes about his part of the task, helping without asking further questions.

  I revel in the sounds of the great wood, the reassuring voices of the trees and the ring of my axe biting into the bark. It’s a relief to be away from the watching eyes in town and thoughts of my father suffering alone. Far below my feet I know the close-knit halsa roots grow, their vast tangle spreading out like veins threaded beneath the forest floor. Here in the shadows of the oldest giants, I sense a great breath being taken in and expelled, over and over again—an ancient rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat. Every moment I spend rooted here in the dirt, something in me loosens until I find that I can finally exhale, too.

  Having taken the axe to two of the trees, I break for a moment, leaning up against a nearby linden, savoring its shade. I swipe my bangs away from where they’re sticking to my face.

  Nearly done. Maybe it’s not so bad having Bran with me after all.

  I eye the distracting place his neck is flushed pink from the work, where dark curls meet golden skin. He’s worked tirelessly, loading everything onto the wagon, following my every command.

  “You know, I’ve heard,” he says, dusting his own hands and strolling closer, “that some say the linden is the tree of lovers.” He arches his black brows and leans back beside me, the wide trunk large enough to support us both. He crosses his arms nonchalantly, as if he leans up against trees every day, in this very manner.

  “Have you? My father told me the linden symbolizes protection and good fortune.” I tear the leather work-gloves from my hands and wipe them on my skirt.

  “I like that even better,” he says, turning toward me.

  He pauses a second, eyes locked on mine. “I know things may seem bleak now, Piro, but for you, good fortune will surely follow. I know it. I knew it as soon as we moved in next door and I saw you through that cupboard. There’s no one like you.”

  How right he is, I think, my smile bitter.

  “I mean it. There’s no one like you, not for me,” he says intently, mistaking my scoffing for modesty.

  Slowly, he lifts a hand to brush my cheek, settling a wayward strand of hair behind my ear with gentle fingers. Bran cups my chin with both hands, grazing my cheeks with his thumbs. He doesn’t speak, just watches me, as though he’s marveling at me, seeing something beneath my skin that I never have seen, something rare and precious. It’s a heady feeling, watching someone see you in a way that you cannot see yourself.

  He leans in and presses his lips to mine in a dizzying kiss that sends any thoughts of gathering wood or waiting deadlines straight to the ether. I can’t even hear the voices of the trees, who are surely bustling about what’s happening at their feet; I’m diverted from my purpose by stolen kisses. Instead, my ears fill with the sounds of air and light, while warmth surges to the places his hands are touching me.

  I kiss him back, my mouth meeting his firm one, reveling in the uncanny way just being held against him makes me feel safe. Protection and good fortune, indeed.

  The linden tree’s bark meets my back as Bran leans even closer into me. His eyelashes flutter against my own and my fingers wind themselves into the rough linen of his shirt.

  Kisses from Bran could never be stolen, anyways. I give them willingly.

  When I regretfully tear myself from his lips, in part to breathe—something I’ve not done much of in the last few moments—Bran smiles but doesn’t pull away, just rests his forehead on my own.

  “We should get back,” I say shakily, knowing this reply sounds more like a question.

  “True,” he says. “You know, Piro, when your father returns home, you needn’t nurse him on your own. My father thinks it’s time to call for your grandmother. Do you think she will come if I go fetch her for you?”


  I blink, trying to comprehend his words. “Who?”

  “Your grandmother.”

  “My grandmother?”

  “Gep’s mother? The one who raised you?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

  I lick my lips, which have gone dry.

  “My parents thought she might come and stay with you. So you needn’t be on your own? Surely she’ll want to be with him when he comes out of the Keep. If she can make the journey, that is.”

  I swallow hard. Sometimes I think if I were not cursed by my splintering tell I would be a fantastic liar. It would be so easy, such a relief, just to lie. Instead, at each fork in a conversation, I am faced with dreadful options. Lie and be found out, or tell the truth and possibly be shattered by it.

  “My parents, they’re worried about you,” Bran says. “Worried that you’re too young to be on your own, to handle the shop and the care he’ll need afterwards, too.”

  I nod, keeping my mouth shut.

  “So, have you written her?” he prods again. “Sent word?”

  I shake my head.

  How I long to say that she died, or that we lost touch years ago. Lies.

  I grit my teeth and silently curse my father for making up that part of my story. Then, I am instantly barraged by a wave of guilt. I know my father only intended those lies to protect me. The trouble is, without him here to speak up, they protect me no longer.

  “Then, shall I? I’d be happy to help, to go and get her and bring her here to stay with you—”

  “No.”

  “But if you don’t have time to reach her on your own, I’ll—”

  “I’ll write to her,” I say, the words coming out in a panic. “I’ll see if she can come. I’ve just been so busy with everything, I hadn’t even thought of letting her know about Papa. If she’s well herself, I’m sure she’ll want to come,” I stammer, the lie unfurling from my tongue.

  Bran looks relieved. I hold my breath, waiting for the familiar pain of a splinter.

  It doesn’t come.

  What magic is this?

  When Bran returns his lips to running small kisses down my neck, I feel so free, so happy. I allow myself to relax into his kisses, get lost in them, and then it happens too fast and much too late to hide.