I look at them all, such hopeful, helpful faces. They have never seen the inside of Wolfspire Keep. For all our sakes, I hope none of us will again.
“No,” I say, the word coming out more harshly than I intend. “Thank you, but I need a little time to get things sorted. To figure out what to do first. On my own.”
I don’t want the distraction of Bran to compromise my planning. There’s too much riding on me completing this order.
“At least let me see you home,” Bran insists.
Back in Curio, I immediately pick up my chisel and hammer and set to work.
“You know, Piro, if Gep doesn’t return for some time—”
“This is temporary.” I don’t let him finish. “I’ll get him back.”
“Right. But, if something happens, if he takes a turn for the worse, I—”
“He won’t,” I say sharply. At this, a splinter prods the skin below my ribs, just under the surface, threatening to poke through.
Blast it all, Piro, I think. Watch your tongue. It isn’t fair, I can’t even hope out loud without being reminded of my curse.
Bran chews on the inside of his cheek. “You can’t possibly do it all on your own. Finish an order this size, I mean,” he adds hastily, seeing the indignation that colors my face. “Saints and stars, Pirouette! These soldiers are bigger than you are! It’s a lot to do in five days, even for one as skilled as the puppetmaster. Maybe you can alert the Margrave’s man again … or beg for more time? You can’t go on like this or you’ll wind up in a cell right along with him.”
Bristling at his words, I turn away and resume pounding the handle of my chisel with fresh vigor. He’s never seen the inside of Wolfspire Keep, those emaciated bones reaching through bars, begging for the smallest scraps of human dignity. Well, I have. It’s my skin on the line now, my father’s life at stake.
“Easy for you to say! I can’t ask for any more than I already have, Bran. The steward thinks he’s doing me a favor by even allowing me the honor of finishing this order in Papa’s stead. He doesn’t trust me as it is, can hardly believe I’m the puppetmaster’s disappointing choice of apprentice.” I sniff indignantly. “Nice to know you feel the same.”
“No, Piro, that’s not—I’m just worried for you,” he pleads above the noise I’m making to drown him out. “If you’d let us, we could help.” He picks up a piece of sandpaper. “The whole lot of us. It’s too much for one person. Now’s not the time to be a martyr!”
I grit my teeth, needing to feel the chisel bite the wood at every sting of the hammer. Bran doesn’t know the first thing about suffering. How could he? He’s known about the village as the Golden Boy, what with his handsome features and sweet nature. Everything comes easily to him; everyone loves him. Bran has no secrets to hide. No past shadowing his future.
“As you’ve already said so plainly, I have a lot of work to do.” I fume over the noise of my hammering. I refuse to look at him.
A moment later the door bells jangle. He’s gone.
They probably all doubt me. But I will complete my father’s work. I must.
The size of the pieces don’t intimidate me, nor the number. The clock on the wall strikes a new hour, as surely as if I’d used my own hammer to sound the chimes. Time. The one thing I can’t control, can’t wrestle with my hands and pin into place. Yet I wouldn’t be Gephardt’s daughter if I didn’t try.
I need money for paint and supplies, and I thank my fortunate stars Papa’s given me a way to make some. Bran’s warning from weeks ago, the first time I saw Laszlo out walking the marktplatz, lingers in my mind as I arrange the wagon stage.
“Take care, Pirouette. Take care.” For all the good that did! Father ended up in Wolfspire Keep anyways, didn’t he? And Old Josipa still ended her time on the burn pile.
Instead of taking care, I align the marionettes and settle my shaking grip on the crossbars. I am tired of hiding. If I dare to tell a tale that reeks of the old magic, of a blood sacrifice and cruel fairy folk and magic gifts, the likes of which people here haven’t heard in an age, perhaps I’ll be able to earn a little more today. The crowd is always thirsty for new stories.
I reach deep in my memory for a fable I once heard from a wandering tinker on a wood-gathering trip, one surely retold countless times under ebony skies filled with stars. It’s a grim tale from long before my time, one I guess the elders in the crowd will recognize. I’ve never forgotten it. Ignoring the worried grousing of the trees at the edges of the marktplatz, I make my voice strong and alluring as a town crier’s and plunge headfirst into a story I’ve never told before.
It’s just a story, I tell myself, to remind them all that the magic still exists. That there is more going on around us than meets the eye. To remind myself of that fact.
By the end of the tale, I realize I have scarcely breathed the whole time. When the dark fairy reveals that the bread the innocent beauty had eaten was conjured from rocks, hisses emanate from the crowd. With the maiden’s belly weighed down by stones, the devastated prince cannot carry her; she is far too heavy to rescue. Instead, the cruel fairy binds the maid to her donkey, cursing them to walk to their deaths, the donkey dragging the poor maid behind him like a millstone round his neck.
The crowd calls out warnings as the fairy carts the prince from the stage, selfishly determined to keep
