Noted at the bottom in smeared ink, as if the writer couldn’t wait for it to dry, is an added clause in the steward’s hand. It adjusts the date and marks the order due today for double the pay.
Why did my father sign off on this? We could barely keep up with the demand as it was! Guilt washes over me. Why hadn’t I kept better watch on him? He must have consented to it when I was out to the marktplatz, for I would have pleaded with him to come to a more reasonable agreement had I been there.
In fairness, I’m not sure my father had much choice—those who disagree with Erling von Eidle don’t usually fare well. Though we’ve yet to receive a penny for this most recent order, I’m coming to understand the Margrave sees everything in Tavia as his already. He may consider us already in his debt.
What can I do? I cannot call for the Margrave’s guards, for they are most likely the ones responsible for taking him away. With shaking hands, I sling on my cloak and lock up Curio. I dart quickly past The Golden Needle, not wanting to bother the Sorens until I know more.
I run through the main thoroughfare, past the marktplatz, my anger fairly shimmering off me on the path to the lower gates of Wolfspire Hall. I’ve heard it said that long before this Margrave’s time, the first Margrave of Tavia kept wild wolves chained at the gates. Thus the name of the von Eidle’s inherited residence, with its towering black spires. These days, the wolves at the gates are long dead. Now I worry the real danger is alive and well within.
When I arrive, the broad gate is locked with a chain and a padlock the size of my head. The two guards standing at attention inside it eye me, clearly bored.
“I must speak to the steward. About Gephardt Leiter, the puppetmaster. It’s urgent.” I flash them the note.
“You’re too late,” one of them replies. “He was brought in earlier this mornin’ but the steward isn’t hearing any more complaints today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
I argue with the dimwitted guards, but in the end, the exercise is futile. This infernal gate is as close as I will get to Papa today. Banging my fist against it in exasperation, I do the only thing I can think of. I turn and run, as fast as my wooden-feeling legs will take me, back to The Golden Needle.
“But how could they take Gephardt to that awful place?” Gita says, aghast. “The good puppetmaster? He’s been looking so worn as it is!”
I drop my head, ashamed I haven’t kept a better eye on him, that I haven’t forced him take more breaks or seen that he actually ate. He’s always been the one taking care of me.
“We didn’t see the guards either, Piro, they must have come before first light, surprising Gep at his workbench. And if they won’t let you in, his own daughter, there’s nothing that can be done until tomorrow,” Tailor Soren replies, his lips tight. “I’m so sorry, Piro. It seems you might as well go home and rest. Gita will bring you by something to eat.”
“I don’t need to rest, I’m fine,” I say, and at those well-worn words, I feel the pinprick of a sliver nudge from somewhere inside my palm. Not a lie, exactly, but not the truth either, Pirouette.
I must slow down, be careful, mind my speech. I don’t want the tailor and Bran finding out anything they shouldn’t because I’m too weary to stick to the truth.
“There’s no shame in rest, Pirouette. You and Gep are more than entitled to it, after the hours you’ve been putting in. Rest a little,” he says, taking in the shadows under my eyes and the way I’m cracking my knuckles, snapping each joint like nervous twigs.
The tailor himself droops with weariness, more so than I’ve ever seen. It’s a strange sight for a man who normally flits around his shop with the stamina of a hummingbird, seeing to everyone and everything with a large dose of exuberance. I’ve been so caught up in our work that I forget others are spending late nights laboring over their own workbenches, backs similarly bent under the weight of the Margrave’s tasks.
“Thank you, but I must get back to the workshop. There are still four soldiers left to be finished, and if Papa can’t complete them, then I shall.”
“Piro,” Bran begins to scold, but is silenced by a sharp look from his father.
“Yes, Pirouette. If you feel ready, get a head start on your work for today. That will make Gep feel a little lighter when you see him tomorrow, I am sure.”
I nod at him, grateful he understands. I must finish the task set before us.
When I return to Curio I leave the front door to the store open, just like I would on any other day, in case a customer comes in. We can always use the extra francs. Wrapping a heavy work apron over my dress, I tuck my hair behind one ear and a freshly sharpened pencil behind the other and get to work.
Soon I am carving away at a soldier’s legs, neatly blotting out the events of the morning, lost in the rhythm of my chisel and hammer striking away at the curve of the calf and the anchor of the knee. The wood we use for these soldiers is different than the typical linden we use for smaller marionettes. The Margrave’s men are all made of halsa, a lighter wood that carves with far more ease than a traditional hardwood. Even so, each piece and part of the soldier is time-consuming, especially at their size. When complete, each one stands nearly a head taller than I do.
I
