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 plummets when I come to one from a few weeks ago. It’s the full order for the current
