“Boys, leave your pennies on the counter. You’re all set.” I wink at them and they scamper out the door, leaving a pile of warm penny francs behind, new soldiers shoved into bulging pockets. I feel slightly less brave without them here, left to face this particular dragon alone.
“If your master isn’t capable of completing this order, other measures must be taken. He knows the consequences. The Margrave has been exceedingly generous with him and this little hovel of a workshop. If he is not able to proceed as planned—well, we hate to think of what will become of him. And,” he says, punctuating the threat with a long, tapered finger upon the ledger, “of you …”
Baldrik now considers me as one inspects a cow brought to market, his eyes dissecting me for future possibilities. “There’s always room in the von Eidle household for one more kitchen drudge or coal scuttler.”
“As I said, sir, I am fully trained to—”
“Tell me, girl,” he interrupts, “where is Gephardt? Is he gone? Has he fallen ill?”
I teeter on the edge of truth and lie, not knowing which way I will tip.
“No, sir. He’s fine! He—”
My words grind to a halt as a splinter punctures the arch of my foot. I bite down hard on my tongue, trying to keep from yelping and giving myself away.
“Has been mixing up some new lacquers for your soldiers’ boots,” my father’s voice booms behind me suddenly. “Dangerous work with those fumes,” he says gravely to Baldrik. “Don’t trust anyone else to do it but me.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. I feel bolstered by its warmth, and blink back my tears. “Not even my finest apprentice. Can’t risk her.”
Baldrik seems satisfied by my father’s sudden arrival, but he also seems to note the white-washed pallor of his cheeks and his fever-bright eyes.
“Well,” says the Margrave’s man, clearing his throat, “we don’t have to repeat to you, Puppetmaster Leiter, the importance of this order to us, nor the ramifications of any failures toward that end. Do we?”
My father shakes his head subserviently. I waver between hating the Margrave’s assistant and hating the fear on my father’s face. I’m not sure which is worse.
“Good. We’ll be by to collect them as soon as they’re done. No need to wait until you can deliver them.”
With a final flinty look at the both of us, Baldrik stalks from the shop, stooping to avoid a smack across the forehead from our broad doorframe.
A pity.
My father leans against the counter to support what I suspect are a pair of wobbly legs. I put my hand on his trembling arm.
“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
