by Lisa DeSelm
The guard rolls his eyes at me and shuts the door all but a crack, positioning his back on the other side of it.
I whirl around to see Fonso caught in the middle of the room, staring wide-eyed at the young Margrave’s marionettes. He whistles low and slow.
“I’ll be honest, Piro. It’s worse than I imagined.” He reaches out to touch the boot of an old witch whose black robes dangle nearly to the floor.
“Tell me about it. I love marionettes, but this place is not Curio.” I grip his forearm tightly and pull him to the worktable. “Don’t touch anything. Come, sit. While I set the eyes you must tell me what’s been happening. I need to know everything, how you and Tiffin are faring, how the Sorens are, what Nan’s—”
“Easy Piro, slow down, there. Take a breath. Surely we’ve got a little time.” He drops on a stool that groans beneath his weight, and lays the velvet bag gently on the table.
“Who knows how little, Fonso, if the Margrave has his way. I can scarcely scrape together five minutes of quiet ‘round here.”
Eagerly, I inch the drawstring of the bag apart and slip a hand inside. Swaddled in cloth, the glass eyes feel as heavy as jewels. I unwrap one and watch as it rolls onto the palm of my hand. The glass is cool and smooth to the touch. The iris is a deep, quenching green, the color of the woods after a hard spring rain.
“Oh, they’re spectacular, Fonso! Just what I needed!”
“How are you faring, Piro? It’s barbaric that the little duke won’t let you go outside.”
“Don’t let him hear you call him that!” I mutter, drawing my pot of glue and a pipette closer. “At least I can go out in the conservatory. I can see the sun.”
“Nanette is fairly raging to see you. She worries over you being cooped up in here.”
“You know she worries just as much over you, even if she won’t admit it. How are the others?”
It’s only been days since I left Bran behind, but already it feels like another lifetime. His false accusation against my father still plagues me like a thorn, but my heart—that most traitorous of creatures—longs to know how he is.
Using a paintbrush, I gingerly coat the backs of the fragile eyes with a special resin, and use the pipette to create a well of the resin in each of Prima’s eye sockets. While Fonso tells me all the latest news, I slowly and meticulously position each eye.
“… there were pieces of your wooden soldiers littered about in the streets, Piro. I don’t even know enough to say what happened there, but it wasn’t pretty, I’ll tell you that. Men have been stalkin’ about with torches, threatening to burn any wooden soldier that crosses their property, but the wooden ones keep coming just when we think we’ve gotten them taken care of! They keep peering in folks’ windows and threatening them with their swords, which are quite real, even if the buggers are wooden beasts themselves. I think they’re meant to keep everyone afraid, to round us up and force us to march on Brylov as soon as the Margrave gives word. But they’re frightening the children! I don’t know how he’s doing it!”
A miserable sigh escapes me. If only my father had known these wooden men were destined to harass and intimidate the village … that the Margrave is making a travesty of his life’s work. Of our work.
“Now he’s taken to having his men parse out rations instead of letting folks sell at the market. So people are mostly keeping to the village limits, shut up inside their homes to avoid the soldiers, trying to share food when they have some to spare. The smart ones are hiding what they get, storing up for the worst if winter comes early. Most are mighty nervous to go about at night, fearing that thing”—he points to the saboteur with a leery eye—“will be after them if they do anything the Margrave doesn’t approve of. It’s bad out there, Piro.”
I swallow.
“How is he doing it? It’s magic, isn’t it?” Fonso growls, his voice low. “Spells and such?’
“I don’t know exactly,” I say truthfully. “I believe he’s practicing some spells of his own, and blaming me to cover up his misdeeds.”
“You’re not to be blamed for anything, Piro,” Fonso says solemnly, putting his massive hand gently on my shoulder. “We all know that. There’s talk of finding allies in Brylov, of overthrowing the young Margrave and appointing someone of our own choosing, should the King agree.”
“Overthrowing?” I whisper. “Is that even possible?” I adjust the position of the right eye just a nudge. Despite what I said to keep the guards away, I won’t allow my princess to start life cross-eyed.
“It’s possible,” Fonso says, eyes gleaming. “The young Margrave is weak, though he’s doing his bloody best to hide it. He may have the threat of magic and your saboteur on his side, but he doesn’t have the support he needs beyond that. And surely the King would be upset to learn our young master poisoned the royally appointed Margravina of Brylov. The old lady just turned the bucket, heard it myself at The Louse and Flea.”
“And will the King learn of that?” I murmur.
“He will if the Maker’s Guild proves our worth. The tailor and Anke have some connections in Elinbruk and hope to spread the word. And also, if we have our way, your stay here will not be long.”
As his hand drops casually from my shoulder, he deftly slides a small, folded note into the front pocket of my work apron. He does it so subtly, I doubt I would have noticed had it not been right under my nose.
“Truly?” I say in one breath, and then in the other, “It’s too dangerous. Don’t waste your energy on me. Laszlo would think nothing of pulling you all away from your homes and tossing you into the Keep, or worse, if you’re caught plotting against him. I fear he aims to make an example of me.”
“We’ll see,” Fonso says mysteriously.
The note begins to burn where it lies, unopened against my chest.
“What of the others?” I ask.
“All well, mostly just hungry and bone-tired. Tiffin is more of a grouchy lummox than ever—being cooped up in the smithy day and night hasn’t improved his mood—but all send you their good wishes. ‘Specially Bran.”
“Well, if I have my way, there will be more work for each of you, hopefully sooner rather than later,” I say, giving Fonso a knowing glance at the body of the princess marionette. I can tell from the light in his eyes he understands that I, too, am up to something.
“Fonso, you still have a cousin who works in the kitchens? A serving lad?”
“Marco Donati, the kitchen porter. The Margrave kept all his personal servants and inherited a few of his father’s. Got to keep those noble bellies full and their backs scratched.”
“Good. I need you to ask him something for me on your way out, if you can manage it. I would do it myself if Laszlo ever let me out of his sight, but so far I have a guard with me at all times and can’t roam.”
From a crate on my worktable, I lift out a pouch of thirty gold francs. Hastily, I scoop them up and drop them into the pouch Fonso used to deliver the glass eyes to me and pull the strings tight.
“If anyone asks on your way out, consider this your payment for your services, for our most generous Margrave did leave it for you. I know it’s not much. But I have an idea, if you can convince Marco to work with us and think he can be trusted.”
Fonso strokes his red-bristled chin. “Does this idea involve breaking into the hoard of food being stored in Wolfspire Hall’s rathskeller?”
“It might,” I whisper back, “if you are willing. Help yourself to whatever is left in the coffers at Curio. The shop is locked, but Bran knows a way to get in without being seen. Papa would want you to have it.
“Then, on your way out, give this to Marco. It should be more than enough to allay the risk of Marco smuggling out several loaves of bread and vegetables each day from the cellars for you all, and some oats for Burl. The Soren girls are seeing to him.
“Arrange for Nan to stop by the Commoner’s entrance each day and have Marco slip the supplies to her with the normal rations, perhaps hidden in one of her large pots—yo
u know, the kind she likes to show off around town by balancing on her head. Tell Marco that, after today, I will leave any additional francs that can be spared for extra food for the makers under a teacup on the tray the guards bring me.”
Fonso nods slowly, but whistles again. “Piro, that will buy a goodly amount of bread. Aren’t sure you shouldn’t hold a little something back for yourself?”
I shake my head. “They feed me, and Laszlo hasn’t killed me yet, so that’s enough for me for now. But I can’t stand to think of Gita and the children or Nan going hungry when I’m sitting several stories above a mountain of food that is surely going to waste. If there’s enough to share with the neighbors, they’ll know who needs it—”
The door is thrown open suddenly, and Laszlo drops in on us like a hawk circling his prey.
“Well? Can she see?”
Fonso stands, trying to look courtly by sucking in his belly and puffing out his chest.
“See for yourself, my lord,” I say, gesturing to the eyes of the princess, set like green gems in her face.
Laszlo leans in close, putting a slender hand on either of her cheeks, which are still rough.
“Yes, those are just as I proposed. Excellent work, erm—”
“Donati,” Fonso pipes up. “Alfonso Donati, glass smith.”
“You are to be commended for your fine work. I’ll have one of the guards show you out. I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your little shop, so we shan’t keep you here any longer.” He sniffs impatiently. I can tell he doesn’t trust Fonso, doesn’t like having outsiders in his private sanctuary. He’s proud of his collection of marionettes, but smart enough to know most people consider his obsession with them a bit … odd.
“I love what you’ve done with the place, my lord,” Fonso says, straight-faced, with a nod to all the marionettes gathering on the walls. “So many toys in here. It’s all very enchanting.”
I bite my lip at Fonso’s little dig. Laszlo glowers, his cheeks staining. “Isn’t it? I find it very restorative to spend time among my collection. I assume you find it scintillating to be among your fires and furnaces? How quaint. You must prefer the heat.”
“Surely don’t mind it,” Fonso says unflinchingly, and he bows. Just out of the Margrave’s view, the glass smith flashes me one last wicked grin. The coins in his purse chink together quietly as he leaves. The sound makes me happy.
If I have my way, we’ll be using von Eidle gold to pay for food to feed the very people they stole it from. I pick up a chisel and return to work, ignoring Laszlo, who lingers like a bad smell in the gallery. I can scarcely wipe the smile from my face for the rest of the day.
Later that night, I finally dare to light a candle. Though Laszlo has a deathly fear of fire for the damage it might do to his marionettes, he does allow me a few slow-burning candles behind glass with which to work at night. If I was only able to labor by daylight, I’d have no chance of completing the princess on time.
With a precious candle flickering, I slip the back of my chair under the door handle, barricading myself in my closet. I curl up on the bed to read the note. Unfolding the paper, I instantly recognize the handwriting scrawled in black ink.
Dear P—
When a gift arrives for the Margrave, so will your means of escape. If you can, send word through Fonso’s cousin that day. After dark, make your way to the rathskeller so I can meet you. I’ll be waiting. Always.
—B
An escape? A gift? And I have to get past my guards? They are all much larger than me and seem possessed of very little humor or goodwill. Years of working in the old Margrave’s employ has long beat that out of any I’ve encountered. I don’t even know their names.
I suck in the first breath of hope I’ve had in days. Can I really leave? I hate to think what might happen if I fail.
I burn the note in the candle’s flame and bury the ashes at the feet of one of the gingko trees planted in the conservatory. I huddle against its trunk, watching the stars blink their eyes at me in never-ending astonishment through the glass-domed roof.
I am torn at the prospect of rescue. The thought of leaving Prima unfinished and abandoning the saboteur carves painful grooves of worry in my soul. I can’t leave them behind, pawns for the Margrave to play against Tavia. I’m grateful for the gesture, but my Makers don’t understand the real danger I’m in. If I don’t stay and complete the spell, I’ll miss my best chance to realize the removal of my curse, like the old tree woman said.
Not to mention that leaving before the blue moon’s spell is uttered will surely awaken the sleeping dragon of Laszlo’s rage. If escaping Wolfspire Hall doesn’t kill me, he will gladly finish the job.
CHAPTER 23
“WHY ISN’T SHE FINISHED YET?” LASZLO SNAPS, KNEADING the back of his neck with one hand while pacing erratically alongside my worktable.
It is only the fifteenth day of my work in the gallery, and yet it feels like my fifteenth year. The Margrave grows noticeably impatient, and ever more anxious. His appearance is normally impeccable, every stitch perfectly tailored and pressed. But today he wears a jacket deeply lined with furrows and the same vest he had on yesterday, flecked with crumbs. Very unlike him. I wonder if he’s been sleeping, noting the deepening bluish shadows under his eyes, the pale skin stretched more tightly across his high cheekbones.
“I ordered the saboteur from you and she was completed in fifteen days’ time.” A cough escapes him at the end of this angry observation, a rasping growl. Sometimes I wonder at the return of his insipid cough, despite his insistence that he is hale and stronger than ever. What if the spells he’s been using to animate the saboteur and soldiers are exacting a price from him already, just as the blue moon will?
Putting those thoughts aside, I steel myself for another tirade. “My lord,” I remind him wearily, looking up from where I am fitting Prima’s forearm and connecting the joints together with pins, “this marionette is not the saboteur.”
I gesture to the assassin’s cage, where she’s hung for days, and balk; she’s gone. I didn’t even hear her leave. She must have gone in the night. That doesn’t bode well.
“If your bride is to be as regal as a princess,” I continue, trying not to think about the absent saboteur, “and if you wish her to be perfect, perfection takes time. We still have another ten days before the blue moon shows its face.”
He paces like a hungry bear emerging from its den. “Precisely. Only ten days, and she is nowhere near complete!”
He is right about that. Prima is shaping up beautifully, but her face still needs to be refined and painted, her hair needs to be stitched on and she is missing her hands. There is still much to be done to turn the raw materials into something truly royal and noble-looking. I spend each day working on her and now, thanks to Bran’s note, anticipating the arrival of the gift that is supposed to bring me a chance at freedom. Freedom I’m not sure I’m ready for. In the meantime, I’m still plotting ways to give Prima what she needs to be complete.
“Is she to have a name, the princess?” I ask.
“Of course she is to have a name. She cannot be a Margravina without a name, a proper name.”
“Have you named her then? Because, if you haven’t, I have a suggestion.”
“You have a suggestion?” he says, the word dripping sarcastically off his lips. “Let’s hear it, by all means.”
“I noticed in one of your books, one from the library you left on the worktable, that the word ‘first’ was listed in the language of the old masters as prima.”
It’s true; I saw it just yesterday, in black ink on paper. The meaning of her name caused a glow at my very core, making me feel certain I was born to sculpt her, that she was destined to be made. That she isn’t just a creature conceived in Laszlo von Eidle’s reclusive mind.
“I thought it might be a fitting name for her, for she will be the first of her kind. The first Margravina of her kind,” I clarify.
Laszlo gives me a dirty lo
ok. “Prima sounds like something one would name a cat. The princess shall be named Ulrika Desdemonia, after my great-grandmother.”
I cringe, thinking his choice sounds more like the name of a deadly pox than a princess. The noble families do have their own strange way about names.
“Perhaps,” I suggest lightly, “once she awakens, she might choose her own name?”
The Margrave rolls his eyes.
“Then, in keeping with your desire to have only the best for her, I was wondering if … no, I don’t suppose we could,” I murmur, holding the stumps of her arms, which end in rounded joints at the wrist.
“Spit it out, Pirouette, we’ve no time to waste on your inane wonderings!”
“I’ve thought of a new way to build very delicate and lifelike body parts, like the hands, but it requires skills beyond my abilities.”
“What way?” he demands.
“A metal armature, a skeleton if you will, is forged and shaped, each bone and joint soldered together. Then, a sculptor lays clay on top to create skin, fingernails, and everything to match. It would be very realistic and refined, far more elegant than what I can carve with the wood alone.”
The Margrave looks thoughtful, but I can tell he remains highly irritated. I wonder if he’s received a reply from the king about his proposition to rule Tavia and Brylov, and the news wasn’t to his liking.
“And I suppose you just happen to know an artisan or two who could produce such work in the time we have left?”
“Of course. I am part of a collective of makers and have many craftsmen and women whose work I rely on when a task is outside the scope of my skill.”
“And I also suppose that these artisans must be summoned here to help you,” he says drily.
“If you wish, yes! The makers I have in mind are Tiffin Hale, the blacksmith, and Nanette Li, the potter. If it’s perfect hands you want for your bride, they are the ones to make them for you. If a messenger could be sent—” I watch Laszlo’s face carefully. I am treading on unsteady ground today.