Wearily, I stand and brush dust from a stiff uniform collar. These soldiers are about to join ranks with dozens of others to spend their lives as … what? An attraction in the house of a madman? A monument to his absurdity? They hardly even speak to me, these soldiers I’ve made, not as the other marionettes do. Mostly I sense from them a perplexing emptiness.
“You did it, Pirouette,” Bran says softly from behind me.
Straightening the tie on the jacket of the soldier, I let out a deep breath.
“I’m not done yet. Not until I have my father by the hand and can walk him out of that hole and into the daylight.”
“Right then,” Bran says, squeezing my shoulder. “Let’s bring the puppetmaster home.”
When the morning sun splays its first rays across Wolfspire Hall’s gates, I am there with Bran. The Margrave’s final soldiers are piled in the back of the wagon like the spoils of an undertaker. I wait with my hands impatiently tugging on Burl’s reins, staring at the crux of the gate, willing it to open, to allow me in, to let my father out.
When finally it does, I knock a guard over in my rush to nudge Burl through.
“Sorry!” I call back, not feeling sorry at all. “Urgent delivery for the Margrave!”
I draw the wagon around the lower side of the courtyard, to the delivery entrance, where the willows lining the drive quiver like old women letting down their hair.
“Hurry, hurry!” they call to me.
Pulling Burl to a halt, I hand Bran the reins and leap down from the wagon seat. I explain my errand to the man at the door and wait breathlessly while he alerts the steward. Eagerly, I unload each soldier with Bran’s help and prop them up against the door frame. In the daylight, tipped back against the wall, they look like a trio of nighttime carousers who’ve found themselves a bit drunk and lost. I am glad to be rid of them.
After a long wait, the guard at the door summons me in with a grunt. Bran starts to follow, only to be stopped by the guard’s hand.
“I’ll be all right,” I find myself saying, reassuringly. “Shouldn’t take long.”
I turn from Bran’s expectant face and follow the guard down a wide hallway. Brightly lit sconces cast a golden halo on the dull, gray stone permeating Wolfspire Hall. I have the horrible note Baldrik Engleborden left behind in Curio a few days ago still folded in my pocket, and I look forward to ripping it up in his face and marching out the door with my father on my arm. But we walk too far a distance for the steward’s office, which is where I expected to end up.
“Where is the steward?” I ask the guard as he hustles me up a long and winding set of stairs. “When will he bring my father?”
“The steward is waiting,” he grunts.
“Where? Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“My debt has been paid, the Margrave has what he needs and I was promised that my father would be returned to me. My wagon is waiting below,” I say emphatically, emerging at the top of the stairs.
“Well, the Margrave is waiting up here. I’ll let you determine which is of more importance, Madame Apprentice,” a now-familiar voice intones dryly from above. “A waiting wagon or the waiting Margrave.”
I reach the top of the stairs, stunned to find myself in a great hall. Portraits of esteemed men hang in dismal silence, and a richly woven carpet—in the von Eidle family crest’s blood-red hue, of course—stretches out beneath my feet. The steward raises unwieldy eyebrows at me.
“The Margrave?” I say, feeling confused. “But I did it! I completed the order. His wooden soldiers are downstairs. Surely our debt is paid—”
“The Margrave wishes to see you,” Baldrik says, firmly putting a hand on my shoulder and directing me toward a set of grand doors with guards positioned on either side. I realize with a shudder that their blank faces look eerily similar to the wooden ones I’ve just spent my days and nights painting.
Before I can protest, the elegantly paneled doors open in tandem. I am ushered into a vast stateroom, where my footsteps are immediately swallowed by thick carpets. The sheer opulence of the room unnerves me. Everything is gold-plated, marble-carved, and polished to a sheen. I can scarcely look around without blinking at the brightness. Elaborate tapestries line the walls, depicting scenes of great battles, brutal hunts, and twisting gardens spreading from one to another. An assemblage of what I assume is the Margrave’s household—courtiers, financiers, and advisors—sits behind narrow desks lining the sides of the room. And at the center, in tandem like a sun with its lagging moon, sit the Margrave and his second son.
It’s too late for fear. I am already here, standing before the rulers of Tavia, very aware of the poor figure I must present. From the tops of my paint-splattered clogs to my coarse hands and disheveled hair, I know I must look every inch the rough, harried Tavian maker that I am. The gouged skin on my nose is healing, but certainly doesn’t add to my appearance.
Because I cannot change the way I look, I use the moment of silence given to me while the von Eidles look me over to do the same to them. I may never get the chance to inspect them so closely again. The Margrave sits upon a high-backed chair, an ostentatious piece that must rival the king’s throne in Elinbruk. Dressed from head to toe in a crisp, black suit broken across the chest by a wide sash of von Eidle red, his feet hardly touch the floor. The sash, emblazoned with numerous tiny medals and baubles, jingles whenever he shifts in his
