“Do you agree, apprentice?” Laszlo asks, the tilt of his chin reminiscent of an owl swooping in to devour a field mouse.
I understand that ‘no’ is not an answer to be spoken in this room without consequences.
“Can you do it?” Laszlo asks, sitting forward on his chair, his eyes wide and expectant, his grin a twist of challenge and allure. Strangely, I get the impression that he believes I can. And though my tongue longs to make excuses, to shout “No! I am not good enough. I am only an apprentice!” I know I only have one choice.
I cannot lie.
“Yes,” I say, the grit in my voice surprising us all. “I can.”
“Magnificent,” says Laszlo, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk, his shoulders relaxing into mirrored slopes of braided gold. “You have ten days, Pirouette Leiter.”
“Fifteen,” I retort, before my brain knows what my mouth is doing. “I cannot possibly create something so … so unique in so short a time.”
Laszlo bites his lower lip, chewing on my answer.
“Fifteen,” he says, nodding slowly. “I will give you fifteen days for fifty francs.”
“Yes, My Lord von Eidle,” I reply, knowing deep in my heart that this is one “yes” that will return to haunt me. The money will be useful, but in the moment, the price I’m to be paid barely registers; something in me senses the actual cost may be much greater.
“Perhaps we can have all of these trifles of yours finished up by the time the glockenspiel is complete,” the Margrave murmurs to Laszlo. “Emmitt assures me he is working on it day and night. Soon the bells in the rathaus will ring again, reminding all within our borders of the greatness of Wolfspire Hall’s legacy. Then, I shall be ready to make my fall proclamation and settle the matter of my will—it can’t be done properly without the glockenspiel at the ready, to signal the turn of the season! It’s tradition!”
“Yes, of course, Father,” Laszlo says, patting his father’s graying hand with a glint of steel in his syrupy voice. “The clockmaker will surely be finished by then. He’s never failed you yet, has he?”
The duke turns his patronizing tone on me. “And neither will you, apprentice. I have grand designs, a whole body of work that is waiting to be done, if you meet this order to my satisfaction.”
I choose my words carefully. “Just as the clockmaker served you, I will make what you ask.”
The duke’s nostrils flare at my praise of Emmitt, but he waves me away with a flick of his hand, clearly done with me. Baldrik’s meaty claws clamp down on my shoulders again and I am ushered out in haste.
A guard loads my father’s wasting frame into the back of the wagon, tossing him in with no more care than was shown the wooden men we just exchanged for him. I hold Papa’s hand and speak to him, trying to make him comfortable, but he just shivers, eyes tightly closed against the starkness of daylight, now used to the gloom of the Keep.
As Bran drives us home, I leave burdened by more than just my father’s health. I roll away in possession of a commission I have no choice but to complete, both to feed us and keep the Margrave and his son satisfied. The old tinker’s tale weighs on me, crystallizing into one simple truth: sometimes not even magic is required to turn a gift like bread to stones.
CHAPTER 10
“HE KEEPS MOANING ABOUT THE MOON. DO YOU KNOW what troubles him so, dear?” Gita asks, a cool hand laid to my father’s forehead, her fingers draped like strips of pale muslin across his sweaty brow.
“Short of a horrible stay in Wolfspire Keep?” says Lottie from the corner.
Fear shoots through me like a well-aimed stone through a window. Since we brought him home, Father has remained in bed, in a terrible state of groaning incoherence. I sit with him every free moment I can spare from the dark soldier I’m building in the workshop below. Gita and two of Bran’s sisters, Lottie and Inga, have been taking turns planting themselves like concerned gargoyles at Papa’s bedside.
“I’m not sure,” I say carefully, because I can only speculate, and of course I have my reasons to keep such speculations to myself.
Father’s body was severely weakened by creating the Margrave’s soldiers, followed by his internment in that fetid cell. I fear his once clear and swift mind has suffered the same fate. I only catch garbled phrases whose meaning I have yet to parse out, such as, “We are not ready,” and “Afraid it’s rotting,” and “Hardly twice in a blue moon.”
I simply haven’t the time to solve his riddles. Every spare second I have is devoted to the making of a new marionette that both frightens and fascinates me. The puppetmaster in me delights in the challenge of bringing shape and form to a figurine as grand as the saboteur. Currently, I’m shaping the hands. I asked Bran to create a custom pair of sleek leather gloves the color of coal, to slide over fingers so tapered and slight they’ll appear more like claws than squared human bones.
I have five days left to complete Laszlo’s request and deliver the marionette to Wolfspire Hall. Baldrik made it painfully clear upon my departure what the consequences will be if I fail to comply with this most recent order. This time, if I don’t finish by the Margrave’s appointed hour, my father will return to Wolfspire Keep and he won’t be alone. I will be joining him, in my own cell.
But I refuse to dwell on the harsh reality of those bars, and am only living and breathing in Curio, in the magic of my craft. My work is the only thing getting me through these long days.
“You’re looking peaked yourself, Piro,” Gita
