I find it difficult to summon any joy in shaping this hulking mold of a soldier, who will be delivered to the castle on the hill, pass through its foreboding gates and then become—who knows?
By late afternoon I’ve finished the lower half of the soldier I started with, and I’m about to begin on the upper when Gita appears at the door with a basket.
“Piro, I’ve brought some supper. Come and eat.”
“Still have more to do,” I say, swiping at my forehead with the back of a dusty hand.
“That great oaf’s not going anywhere,” she says with a nod to the man under my chisel. “He can wait.”
Ruling our small kitchen upstairs as if it were her own, Gita ladles me a bowl of roasted potato stew. I feel pitifully grateful, not even realizing how hungry I am until the first mouthful slides down my throat, creamy and hot. By my experience of her, she is a mother to beat all mothers, both stern and sweet. Her entire brood, including the tailor, adores her.
She sits down, calmly watching my face, her eyes probing in the way I’ve observed some mothers have. I’m unaccustomed to it and it sets my nerves on edge. I avert my eyes and focus on my bowl, trailing my spoon around the edge after every mouthful.
“Do you need anything else, Piro?”
“No, thank you. The stew is delicious.”
She smiles. “I wasn’t speaking about your supper.”
“Oh.”
Gita waits patiently.
“We’re fine, Gita. Thank you. We’ll be all right,” I reassure her.
Leaning forward, she places a thin but sturdy hand on my arm. Her eyes refuse to shirk mine.
“Sometimes, Piro, when difficulties come, our first instinct is to manage everything ourselves—the work, the worry. All of it. That’s how we survive. We try to lift it all on our own shoulders. And you and Gep, I know you have survived great difficulties before.”
I blink, feeling overwhelmed by her quick assessment of my situation and the reminder that she believes my own mother is long dead. Is this what it’s like, having a mother of your own? A pair of eyes that cut straight to the root of a problem before you even know how to form your own thoughts? I swallow another mouthful of stew.
“What I’m trying to say is, the tailor and I want you to know you’re not alone. You and Gep are part of our family, not just our Guild family, but honorary Sorens, if you will.” She refills my mug from a pitcher on the table without my asking. “And we will help you and your father all we can. I’m sure he’ll be back in the workshop before you know it. And if he won’t slow down, I’ll give him a few orders of my own,” she says with a wink and a squeeze of my arm.
When the warm imprint of her hand disappears and she turns back to the stove, I am struck by how immediately I feel its absence. Bran doesn’t know how lucky he is.
After eating two full bowls of stew, I wipe my mouth and make quick work of dropping my dish into a waiting basin of soapy water.
“I’m heading back down. Thank you for the soup.”
“’Course. I’m always glad for a few minutes away from my sewing. Though the Margrave may have a thing or two to say if the dozens of seams we have left remain unfinished,” Gita says, grimacing as she packs her basket.
“Well, I may have a thing or two to say to the bloody Margrave,” I mutter under my breath as we trundle down the steps to the workshop.
“You and me both, girl.”
After a full day of work, I journey through the twilight to Wolfspire Hall’s locked gate. I want to see my father as soon as possible tomorrow. The guards pay me no mind this time, leaving me to draw my hood and rest against one of the broad stone pillars anchoring the gate. I sink down against the stones, a cloaked puddle of frustration and worry. A large willow within the gates sighs with pity.
“Sleep if you can, while you can,” it shushes. “Sleep while you can.”
CHAPTER 6
BEFORE THE SUN’S FIRST RAYS APPEAR, THE GRATING SOUND OF the opening gate stirs me from a bad dream. I dreamt the wooden soldiers ran through the streets of Tavia. They ran with jerky, stilted legs across the uneven lanes, their arms pumping rigidly, eyes fixed on the forest beyond. Bewildered, I watched them go, afraid of what their loss meant for Curio yet half-sympathizing with their desire to return to the place from which they came. The poor things didn’t know that once you were chopped down and carved up you could never be made whole again. There was no returning to what they were. My father screamed, calling for them to stay, while I silently cheered for them to go, wishing to never see scrap nor splinter of them again.
Blinking, I rub the remains of sleep from my eyes, jittery from the nightmare. The sight of the open gate brings me to my feet. The guards from yesterday have been replaced with new ones. They all afford me the exact same look of disdain. I dispense it right back and step through the gate.
“I must speak with Master Engleborden, the steward,” I demand again.
The guard on the left, who has one good eye and one clouded and gray, clears his throat. He spits unceremoniously onto the stones at my feet. “Inside the common entrance, fourth door to the right.”
I breeze past them, holding my head high as I walk the long, curving path to
