As I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, their manic whispers bleed slowly beneath the cries for help. They are the whispers of those talking to themselves, the endless shuffle of raw feet back and forth. Most cells contain barely human shapes, bundles huddled in corners, eyeballs gleaming yellow in the torchlight. I clasp my hands tighter to my apron, feeling disgusted with myself, realizing I am scared of them, these pale specters with matted hair and grasping fingers. Their clawing need is overwhelming.
And what did they do? I wonder, creeping past the rows of hollow eyes and carved-out mouths. Palm a loaf of bread? Fail to cheer loudly enough from the front row of the Margrave’s last feast day promenade? Neglect to contribute to the shares the Margrave insists we pay the King at the end of each harvest after a bad growing season? Find themselves unable to meet some absurd deadline to deliver to him what he already decided was his? Surely they don’t deserve this. No one does.
Trembling, I reach the end of the row and drop to my knees in the damp in front of number 24. My father is curled up on his side, his immense body small in the encompassing dark. A wheezing cough rattles his chest.
“Papa,” I call out to him, reaching a hand through the grimy bars.
He doesn’t hear me at first, not above the din the other prisoners are making and the thundering of his own cough. I can reach a hand just far enough in to squeeze one of his.
“Papa.”
His eyes open and search the gloom for my face. When he finds me, I can tell he doesn’t know if I’m truly here. He sits up and comes closer, reaching for me through the narrow spaces between bars.
“Pirouette? I’m so sorry. There wasn’t enough time to leave you a note, he wouldn’t let me.”
“I’m here to see about getting you out. Why did you agree to do the last order, to rush it? Why, Papa?” My voice breaks.
One lens of his glasses is cracked, but still he pushes them up from where they’ve dropped low on his nose. The sight of that simple, familiar gesture squeezes my heart like a fist.
“I thought if I just worked a little harder, a little faster—I’ve always been able to meet my orders. And for double the pay! Why, think of what we could do with that money!” Fever coats his eyes and it terrifies me. His cheeks are frighteningly sunken.
“But, Papa, we could never finish that many in such a short time, even with both of us working around the clock. It’s impossible. And now what do I do, Papa? How can I get you out of here? This place is …”
“Vile,” he croaks and then breaks into a deep cough. “I know, Pirouette. But I’m sure it’s just temporary. If you can finish the soldiers—”
“I will. I will, Papa!”
“Then perhaps the Margrave will let me go.”
“I will do whatever I must, Papa. It won’t be long.” It couldn’t be. Another week in this air and I feared he would no longer be able to draw breath.
“Now, Piro, you’ll need to find more halsa, and of course, don’t forget to—”
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Above the murmurs and cries, Wolfspire Keep’s bell sounds, just as Baldrik promised. A cold hand closes over my collar and I am dragged to my feet.
“I will!” I yell back to my father again, a promise that fades into the dank blackness as I’m hauled away from the dismal sight of number 24.
I will.
I feel that truth deep in my marrow. My pledge to my father is confirmed when no shard of wood comes jarring out of my body in contradiction.
I make a beeline for The Golden Needle, still in shock from what I’ve seen and heard in the Keep, my cloak reeking of the foul atmosphere in its depths. I interrupt the Sorens at tea.
I made a deal with Baldrik to complete the final three soldiers and have them done within five days, to meet our original deadline. We certainly could have used double the pay—I understand by the empty space inside my father’s coffer why he was tempted by such a hollow promise. But if I complete the current order, I will receive only my father in return. Baldrik made it clear no gold francs would pass hands. I will do it for my father. I could live with little and do without many things, but I can’t do without him.
Bran’s face is a patchwork of worry and anger. The tailor’s mouth sets itself in a grim seam over the prospect of what I face to set my father free.
“We’ll help you, Piro,” Bran offers quickly, his flock of sisters gathering around me while Gita presses a steaming mug into my hands. “We all will. Even if we’ve never picked up a chisel before, surely you can tell us what to do.”
“It’s not that simple, Bran,” I say, my mind frantically ticking off all that must be done to complete the Margrave’s order. “We need more halsa, so I’ll have to make another trip to the wood. I need more paint—” My voice falters and I find myself blinking back tears to keep them from dripping in my tea. “If you aren’t trained, it will take me more time to teach you how to do things properly than it would for me to just buckle down and work on them myself.”
I stand up hurriedly, nearly spilling my cup. “I must get started right away,”
“Please, Pirouette, let us help you. I’ll bring a bite over later—you mustn’t neglect your meals,” says Gita firmly.
“I’m coming with you,” says Bran, buttoning up his gray vest that had been hanging open over a crisp, white shirt.
The tailor nods. “Of course. I can handle things here.”
“I’ll help with Bran’s work while he’s helping Piro, Papa,”
