“I will.”
“Mhmmm,” she mumbles, looking unconvinced.
After scarfing a hunk of bread and a piece of chicken in the kitchen, I find that I am eager to return to my work. I left the shop front open, hoping that we might gain a little sympathetic business during these difficult weeks as word of the puppetmaster’s release trickles about the village. But there are no customers this morning, and so, despite only a few coveted hours of sleep, I set my hands to completing the next phase of the saboteur.
I have enough halsa left from my last trip to the wood, so all my time has been spent shaping what will eventually, I hope, become a saboteur—a saboteur from a hearth tale never seen or heard of before. I pick up a block of wood Papa had wrapped with sanding paper, and using short, practiced strokes, I apply pressure to the jointed fingers. Though it will be as tall as the previous soldiers, this body is being born in an entirely different way than the stiff regiment we previously constructed.
The limbs I’ve sketched on sheets of onion-skin paper are thick and strong in the haunches and lean in the seams, the torso curved instead of ramrod straight. The muscular chest curls elegantly down to a pair of strong hips, joined by legs that could spring from a window or high ledge at the slightest provocation.
I’ve made many marionettes; some large, some miniature, some charming and some intended to twist the audience’s guts at the very sight of them. This saboteur is one of the latter.
The wood speaks as it takes shape beneath my fingers, a blurred, questioning voice that seeks to know the future. “Where shall I find my place of honor?”
I hope and pray that I will do this piece justice, giving the wood the honor it deserves. In the days that follow, I labor over smoothing every angle, refining every curve and ligature so that its stringed movement will be a thing of beauty. Of feline grace. Of terror.
If it were alive, of course.
I no longer have time to linger at The Louse and Flea, no time to sit and gossip over pitchers with my feet up. The Maker’s Guild knows that if we are to gather together, the closest we can get these days is the workshop at Curio. At least those of us that can; Emmitt has nearly completed the glockenspiel, but is sleeping and working by nights in the tower to protect against further thievery.
I’m grateful for my friends’ presence, for the eager hands that long to help, for their laughter and their gifts. Each has brought me something special tonight to cheer me: Fonso a new lamp for the workshop, Nan a fresh jar of olive oil, and Tiffin a specially forged rack I requested from him, just for the saboteur.
“Looks like some kind of primitive torture device,” Fonso remarks, his hefty shoulders cringing at the metal frame conveying a series of hooks and loops.
“Primitive!” Tiffin grouses. “I’ll have you know that rack is as sturdy and strong as it is elegant. Designed it myself,” he mumbles. “Didn’t even need Mort to help me.”
“It is rather … unique,” agrees Nan, gazing at the bars of metal Tiffin fabricated, on a platform bolstered by small wheels. The whole thing does give the impression of a cage for a beast rather than the simple frame on which a marionette will hang.
“It’s perfect, Tiff,” I say with a tired smile.
The soldiers we could pile in a heap and deliver via wagon, for they were without strings, and had sturdy bodies which could stand at attention like statues with wired armature. But the saboteur requires a full range of movement, and is constructed with strings flying out like spidery threads from every joint, suspended above and behind with sets of crossbars. Though this marionette is made of light halsa wood, because of its size, it will still take someone of considerable strength to stand above and manipulate the body. But the noble son of Tavia requested it be made this way, and my father’s life depends on it.
So here it is. The grandest piece I have ever built, though at the moment the entire body is scattered about in pieces. I was joining limbs to torso when the makers invaded my workshop.
Fonso lights his lovely new lamp for me, while Bran rebuilds the fire in the wood-burning stove nestled in the corner. Goodness knows there is always plenty of kindling scattered about. Nan bustles here and there, pouring everyone a cup of tea from a pot Gita sent down, the tea tray laden with scones plopped right down among the glue and mess. Tiffin skulks about, looking out of place and anxious among the marionettes. For a time, the workshop swells with laughter and our inside jokes and jabs, the air fragrant with the scents of freshly hewn wood and scones—two of my favorite things.
“Enough about me.” I shove a hot scone into my mouth. “I’m eating, sleeping, and breathing nothing but marionette dust.” I lick a drop of raspberry jam clinging to my knuckle. “What’s happening out there? How’s business?” I ask, looking around, noticing each familiar face appears a little more drawn than usual.
Fonso crosses his colossal arms over his chest and sighs. Nan picks at her nails. Tiffin chews his lip. Bran pretends to study a curl of wood just discovered on the floor. I know them each too well, their eyes, their grim expressions.
“Tell me,” I say, swallowing the remaining bite of scone. It slides down my throat in a dry lump.
“You’ve been so busy,” Nan leaps in, “no one wants to worry you.”
“Well, now I’m worried.”
Silence settles like a stiff sheet as I search their faces.
Fonso
