The Puppetmaster's Apprentice

by Lisa DeSelm

He looks out the windows to the conservatory. There must be a good chill in the outside air today, for the windows of the botanical conservatory are clouded with vapor.

  “Fine! If it will give her the best sort of hands, and you know I only want the best, then fine,” he says petulantly. “Write up the order and I’ll have it sent. But take care, apprentice, who you are so quick to invite into my private gallery.”

  My neck prickles.

  “My lord?”

  He turns to face me again, drumming his fingers slowly on the table. “Ask whoever you wish to aid you in making my bride, as long as they are the finest artisans in Tavia. But you may want to be a little more choosy. I’ve just been told your glassblower had an unfortunate accident with his furnace after his visit here.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Prima’s unfinished arm drops from my hand to the table with a thud.

  He’s hurt Fonso! His ill-advised jibe in Laszlo’s inner sanctum must have been too much for the Margrave. Another maker hurt and the saboteur missing again, and it’s all my fault. When will this end?

  I can’t bear to press Laszlo for further details, for I know he will only delight in giving them, so I bite down my bitterness and pin my eyes back on my work. I was counting on his vanity and pride to save us, to allow me to bring in each of my makers to give Prima something special and take home a little extra food and protection. My thoughts fly to the wicked, selfish fairy in the tinker’s tale, cruelly turning the maiden’s bread to stones.

  One by one, he will harm them, if he feels threatened by their presence. We must be so cautious.

  “Tell me, apprentice, have you given any thought to what she might wear?” the Margrave asks, toying with one of Prima’s legs. I am still seething over the news of Fonso’s injury. What did the Margrave do to him?

  “Wear, my lord?”

  “Well, surely I can’t have her looking like this,” he says, pointing to the marionette splayed on the table. At this stage, she looks like the ghost of a woman who jumped off a bridge, arms and legs all afloat.

  “Is she to be awakened in a royal ball gown or a wedding dress? Something that looks quite regal? Or should she appear in something more demure, as is befitting a bride? We really should have a tailor round to take measurements,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you agree?”

  “A tailor,” I breathe, my mouth dry as sawdust.

  “Of course, a tailor! You must write up an order for him as well. Do it quick. But not the younger tailor,” he says, chewing on his lips. “No, I want the older tailor. The younger can stay put,” he says, his face cracking into a smile, the first I’ve seen in a few days. “For I may have special need of him.”

  I force myself to continue joining the princess’s elbow. He’s trying to goad me.

  “Very wise, my lord. Benito Soren will create a gown for her that will be both spectacular and uncommon. He’s the best,” I say, slowly and evenly.

  “I should like to oversee the design. Otherwise it may not be grand enough. Tell the tailor he must consult with me as soon as he arrives.”

  “Of course,” I manage to choke out. “I’ll send the orders with a guard right away.” I move the princess’s forearm back and forth, inspecting how smoothly the joints rotate on their pins, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill from the corners of my eyes.

  “See that you do,” the Margrave says, “you know we’re pressed for time. Some of us more than others.”

  Later that night, after sending for Nan and Tiffin and the tailor, I fall into the narrow bed in the closet, winding my aching hands beneath my head for a pillow. My doubts are as numerous as the scratches and bruises on my weary body.

  When my chance at escape comes, do I take it? Do I choose freedom from the Margrave over liberation from my splinters?

  Everything in me revolts at the idea of abandoning Prima and the saboteur to Laszlo. I feel a bond with them, a kinship. If I leave before the blue moon, before taking the chance to awaken Prima, who knows what the Margrave will do with her?

  I’m garnering every tool at my disposal to ensure she comes together as a woman of strength, valiance, and beauty, hoping she can hold her own against the Margrave and do Tavia some real good. Making her is my act of rebellion; I’m hoping to give Laszlo more than he’s bargained for. But maybe my efforts and intentions won’t be enough. Maybe she’ll wind up just another tool of the Margrave, another blade to be wielded as he wishes.

  With the saboteur loose among the people again, I consider that it might be best if Prima is not awakened after all. Alive, this princess may be even more powerful than I anticipate … or more deadly.

  Still, selfishly, I have to consider that waking Prima is also my best chance at being freed from my curse, at leaving that last vestige of my past behind. Yet what good is it to be set free from the splinters only to be trapped here the rest of my days? I have no guarantee Laszlo will release me when I’m finished. For all I know he intends to keep me installed in the gallery permanently, a lifetime sentence as his own personal puppetmaster. The thought curdles the remains of my supper.

  Or if I stay and the spell works, I fret, what if the grief and rebellion in my own heart causes her to be cursed, to suffer as I do or with a malady far worse? What if by repeating the blue moon’s magic, I am cursing another to suffer in turn? It’s not fair!

  Oh, Papa. What do I do now?

  Thinking of my father only causes more doubt. I know the moon’s magic will exact a price, just as it did for him. What if the price the blue moon demands is one I am not willing to pay?

  Flocks of questions haunt me unceasingly, a swarm of ravens returning to pick at my carcass, tearing me apart piece by piece. The weightiest fears land on my chest after the clock strikes twelve.

  What if, instead of building a masterpiece … I am making a monster?

  Knowing what’s become of the saboteur, the most formidable question of all claws its way into my heart.

  And if I am capable of making a monster, what does that make me?

  CHAPTER 24

  THE NEXT DAY, THE DOOR TO THE GALLERY BURSTS OPEN LIKE the advent of a winter gale and Laszlo strides noisily forth, shutting out the guards in the hall.

  “Look what’s just arrived,” he crows, placing a small wooden chest on the worktable.

  Wiping my hands on a rag, I come over to inspect the object. A stab pierces my heart. I recognize it. It’s from Curio.

  “Open it,” he gloats.

  “But, don’t you wish to open it?” I stammer.

  “Already have. I want you to see it. Something new for my collection.”

  The Margrave is positively giddy, which I take as a bad sign. Tentatively, I drop my rag and use my thumbs to shift the outer locks on the wooden chest. I lift the lid carefully.

  “Oh!” I gasp, unable to keep the memories from rushing in.

  Gently, I lift a marionette I had long forgotten from the crinkled paper wrapping. A queen, an exquisite puppet my father made years ago—far older than me. She has jet black hair and a delicate face, smooth as glass. She’s clad in a gown the color of milk, studded with pearls and lace, and remains untouched by the years that have passed, looking just as fresh as when I last saw her. This was a marionette Gephardt created to please his late wife, a portrait of her in puppet form.

  “The Lady Cosima,” I whisper.

  “Is that what she’s called?” Laszlo asks, swooping in with greedy hands to snatch her away. “Funny! Leave it to the puppetmaster to have a piece like this stashed away in the muck and damp somewhere. No doubt she was rescued from Gephardt Leiter’s stores where she would surely gather dust and rot. This one should most certainly be on display in my collection, where she can be truly appreciated!”

  He walks to an empty rack on the gallery wall, one right next to the small puppet version of himself, and drapes the Lady Cosima triumphantly over a waiting hook.

  My father only ever showed her t
o me once, when I was asking questions about his wife and what she was like. Papa unswaddled her with great ceremony from her wrappings high in the large wardrobe in his room, opening the rustling onionskin paper as delicately as if he were handling gold leaf.

  “How did you—” I falter.

  “A gift! Delivered by hand from the Maker’s Guild. In honor of my newly acquired position as Margrave, or so the note read. And, I suspect,” he says with a dark smile, “a peace offering, an attempt to get back into my good graces after the glassblower’s accident. Perhaps you are not all as thick-witted as you seem. At any rate, I am never one to refuse a new marionette, especially one so fine as this. She deserves to be with me, rather than locked away in a box. Look at those hands! Those eyes! That dress!”

  His eyes light up. “That dress! We must send the tailor revised instructions immediately. The dress my own bride will wear should match this one exactly!” He stops to laugh a second, looking from the Lady Cosima to Prima and back.

  “Why, it’s uncanny! The resemblance! Have you noticed it? How perfect,” he says, stroking Prima’s smooth cheeks. “If you ever misbehave for me, darling,” he croons, pointing to Lady Cosima’s small hanging form, “we shall have your own whipping girl at the ready. How splendid!”

  I stare at Lady Cosima, appalled.

  “Now, I have some important matters to attend to. Pick up the pace, Pirouette. The days are waning. Send them in!” Laszlo yells to the guards out in the hall.

  Nan and Tiffin are brought in by the guards, laden with materials and tools. They must have been waiting in the hall all this time, after handing over the marionette. Laszlo looks them over with a shrewd eye while they quietly ready their things to begin constructing the princess’s hands just as he ordered.

  Earlier this morning he was berating me for the princess’s own cheekbones being, in his opinion, too wide. I managed to stop that rant by plying his vanity with compliments and explaining they brought balance and strength to the rest of her features. It’s requiring all my wits, but I shall say whatever I must, short of lying, to not have him ruin her face with his own peculiar tastes.

  “Send word about her new dress immediately. The tailor must return in a few days’ time with her gown. She must be ready!”

  Ten days left ’til the blue moon. The days are slipping away from us like sawdust.

  “I will, my lord.” I say. “We will.” Tiffin bows his head and Nan does a little bob and curtsy that nearly makes me choke at the sauciness of it.

  When the door shuts behind Laszlo with the guard safely on the other side, I launch myself into Nan’s arms, hopping up and down with happiness. Tiffin stands awkwardly to the side until I reach out and grab him too, pulling him into our embrace. Together, they smell like iron and sparks, glaze and paint—everything good and real about the world outside these doors.

  “How I have missed you! What news of poor Fonso? Did the food reach you, Nan? Has it been enough? What about the Sorens? How is Bran?”

  Nan laughs and squeezes me back. “Hold tight to your questions, Piro. First, I must get my bearings or I’m not going to be able to see straight. Too many eyes on me. Far too many eyes.” She pulls back and I let her go because I understand her need to gape at the cloister of marionettes.

  Tiffin takes the opportunity as well, murmuring, “Bloody brimstones, Piro! How in the blazes did you end up in here? Is this his private chapel where he worships them or something?”

  I shake my head. “This is the gallery, the best of his private collection. Apparently this is only half of it.”

  “We’re out there with barely enough food to fill our bellies, being terrorized by wooden soldiers, with the threat of a fight against Brylov hanging over our heads all so he can win some seat at a bigger table than the one he has here, and he’s playing at puppets …” He rubs his eyes in disbelief.

  “He’s not exactly playing,” I say quietly. Bran is the only one who knows the true nature of the project the Margrave has commissioned me for. The rest of the makers know I am here, building a special marionette at his request, but that is all.

  “What do you mean?” asks Nan.

  “He has hopes to bring her to life,” I point to Prima, finding myself unwilling and unable to lie. “He is the one reviving the old magic, all while hiding behind me, blaming me for it.”

  Tiff’s eyes grow wide, the whites looking sharp against his dark skin. “Preposterous,” he scoffs. “And just how does he think he’s going to do that, eh? A few magic whispers and that thing will be up walking around on her own, living and breathing? That deranged wastrel!”

  Nan walks around the gallery, chewing a fingernail, looking angry and repelled all at once.

  “No offense, Piro, I know you and your father love marionettes, but this is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. They are just so … so gruesome.” She motions to the body of a man who bears a wolf’s head. “How on earth are you working here, let alone sleeping here?”

  “Well, I can’t say it’s been restful, but I don’t have much of a choice, now do I? You must ignore all of that,” I say, taking her by the hand and directing her eyes back to me, to the wooden princess lying in state in the center of it all. “You must tell me, how is Fonso? What’s happened?

  Her eyes grow pained. “Someone—or something—attacked him in the early hours, when he was up stoking the furnace. Nearly shoved him in, but you know Fonso, he has the strength of a bull and is just as stubborn. Still, he’s suffering—great burns all up his arms. ‘Twill be some time before he can work again. We’re all taking turns, seeing to him, but Anke’s been especially good. Makes her feel useful, with Emmitt being gone.” Nan’s voice drops low.

  I pull her to me, hugging her tight again, feeling devastated at the torment visited upon my small clan. Feeling, as always, that I am to blame.

  “You and Tiffin must be alert,” I whisper in her ear. “I fear the Margrave may try the same with you, if he senses anything not to his liking. Close your studio, run to the Sorens or to the woods, whatever you need to do if you feel unsafe. I’m worried for you all. We must act quickly now, I don’t know how long we’ll have alone.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” she whispers back. “Worry about yourself and take the gift of freedom when it’s offered to you,” she says with a knowing wiggle of her eyebrows. “Leave everything behind and go as soon as you have the chance.”

  Tiffin reaches out to awkwardly pat my shoulder. Nan throws him a glare, her voice still low. “It’s not as if we’re sending her to the gallows, you clodding oaf. She’ll be fine.”

  I look at her skeptically. “I don’t know how … how am I to get past the guards?”

  “You’ll think of something! Charm them with your feminine wiles!”

  “What? What wiles?” I ask, alarmed.

  “Can’t we get started now?” Tiffin interrupts, looking around nervously. “I don’t want to spend a minute longer in here than I have to. No offence, Piro.”

  “Right,” I say, my mind still baffled at the idea of escape. “Tell me, have you all been getting enough to eat?”

  Nan’s eyes light up again, and I can immediately tell the intrigue of smuggling food from the Margrave’s stores is a delight.

  “Yes! Remarkably, there’s been more than enough to go around. Now,” she says, suddenly very business-like, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “Tiffin, these hands aren’t going to build themselves. Let’s get to it.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Tiffin slumps onto a stool at the worktable.

  Despite the forced strangeness of being together in the gallery, I am eager to see what he’s brought and how a pair of iron-forged hands might look on one of my creations. I’ve never tried this method before with a marionette and I know my father would have been proud to see it attempted.

  Tiffin pries open the lid of a wooden crate he brought along and lifts out a set of well-matched metal armature. The wrists are delicate, the finger-bone rods splayed out
from iron bands that form the palms, the five slender fingers attached with knuckles of hardened metal. Though they are just the skeleton of a woman’s hands, they look strong and aristocratic; bones that might brandish a cup of tea and a knife with the same grace.

  He looks up at me, his eyes filled with one question. “Good?”

  I nod. “Just right.”

  “At least something in here will be.”

  While Tiffin attaches the wrists to Prima’s forearms, drilling with his awl and securing them with screws, Nan begins kneading a huge batch of white-gray clay I know is usually reserved for her finest pieces, for fragile platters and vases and such.

  Once Tiffin has the hands properly attached, Nan begins her half of the work. The hours pass quickly with them here, watching them work. Laszlo flutters in and out to watch our progress.

  Under Nan’s deft fingers, the princess’s bones begin to bloom with skin and structure. Rounded fingernails emerge from the fingertips as if they grew there. Nan pads the light muscle of Prima’s palms, gently creasing her knuckles at the joints, drawing each wrinkle across the skin with precision. When she finally looks up at me, the daylight has vanished from the gallery windows and her face is flushed from concentration.

  “What do you think?”

  “Brilliant,” I say, sad to break the happy reverence of the afternoon. “I could never have achieved that same effect with wood.”

  She wipes her forehead with a dusty sleeve. “Well, to each element its own strength; wood has qualities that clay can never match. But, if I do say so myself,” she says, standing to stretch and clutch at cramping muscles in her neck, “that’s a pair of beautiful hands, fit for any noble lady.”

  “They’re amazing, Nan,” I say, reaching out to run a finger across the palms. The ridges in my fingertips drag across the smooth, still-wet clay, leaving a tiny smudge.

  “Don’t touch, Piro! You know we can’t fire them, it would ruin the whole thing. You must allow them to air-dry without disturbance.”

  As Nan and Tiff are returning their tools and materials to their carrying cases, the Margrave billows in again to see what’s taking so long. The makers keep quiet while he bends over the wooden princess, examining her new hands. I can tell from the way Tiffin throws the tools into his kit and the fury in his eyes that he’s considering yanking one of the Margrave’s marionettes off the wall and beating him over the head with it. Nan reaches out, steadying the smithy with a firm touch of her hand.