My whole body freezes. I was hoping to avoid this conversation at all costs, hoping against hope Bran would just forget. But how could he? How could anyone forget seeing a thorn of immense proportions burst through someone’s nose?
“In the woods?” I repeat, my voice high and tight.
I can’t do this. Not now.
“When I kissed you, the next thing I knew, something had hurt you … a splinter dropped out of the sky, or a branch struck you. And you wouldn’t even let me see, or let me help. Don’t you know I’ll help you, anytime I can? I can’t bear to see you hurt.”
“I know,” I say tersely.
“And speaking of my parents again, they’ve been asking. Is Gep’s mother coming? Does she know?”
“Hmm,” I murmur, frantically thinking of how to redirect the conversation. I resume boot buffing at a rapid pace.
Bran comes closer, placing a firm hand over mine, to stop the manic polishing.
“Piro, please. I know something is wrong, but I don’t know what. It’s killing me. Help me understand.”
Spruce and ash! The sensation of impending splinters prickles my palms as I search for a lie to hide behind. I know I can’t avoid his questions much longer, or his eyes. There’s no place to hide. Horrified at the leap I am about to make, I decide to take Bran at his word, to truly trust him.
“Have you ever heard,” I stammer, my eyes blurring with sudden tears, “the story of Old Josipa?”
He nods. “It was before my time here, but I’ve heard it.”
I press my hands against my father’s worktable, so that the rough surface might hold me up.
“Remember how she used the old magic? Spells long forbidden in our territories?” I mumble.
He nods again, keeping his face steady.
“I am … I mean, I was …”
“Old Josipa was your grandmother?”
“No, you don’t—”
“You’re a healer, like the old woman?”
“No!”
“A conjurer?”
“No!”
“A witch?”
“Stars, no, Bran!” I snarl, feeling more like a trapped beast than a girl. “Keep your voice down!”
“What is it, Piro? Where did that splinter come from?” he whispers.
I pause, taking a long, shuddering breath to gird myself for what comes next. The rejection. The fear.
“I wasn’t raised by my grandmother. I don’t even have a grandmother. Or a mother, or a father, at least, not in the way you do.”
He looks confused, but stays silent, watchful. I glance around at the windows to confirm they are shut.
“I come from … there.”
“You come from the countryside?”
“From the wood.”
“The wood,” he says breathlessly.
“My father, the puppetmaster, made me,” I say slowly, letting that sink in. “And then there was a spell,” I say, with barely a hair’s breadth of sound. “A spell spoken under the blue moon.”
He stares dumbly, trying to grasp my words. Bran steadies himself against my father’s stool. At least he isn’t running—fleeing straight to the steward to tell, like anyone else might. A small tendril of hope uncurls in my chest.
“Your father made you,” he repeats slowly. “And the splinters?” he asks, looking up. “Like in The Louse and Flea? I’ve seen the scars on your hands, your arms.”
“Some are from my woodworking.” Out of habit, I swipe at my face, and my fingertips graze the wound on my nose. “Some are not. If I speak words that are untrue … like I spoke to you about my grandmother, who doesn’t exist, then …” I shrug.
“If you lie, the magic doesn’t let you forget it?” He doesn’t force me to complete my thought, he does it for me, though I can tell he’s rattled by what he’s heard.
“Yes,” I whisper, my shame on full display.
“I see,” he replies, though I can see he doesn’t, not completely.
“I’m sorry I lied to you!” Tears leak from my eyes.
Bran looks utterly bewildered, but bravely hides it. Shaking his head in disbelief, he closes the gap between us and crushes me in a hug.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. I’ll admit, it hardly seems possible. Then again, Gep is a great puppetmaster. The greatest. I … I don’t know how it all happened … but I do know that I meant what I said to you that day in the wood. There’s no one like you for me. And whether you came from this place or the mountains or the bleedin’ moon, it doesn’t matter to me,” he says staunchly. “I love you, Piro.”
Gently, he places a hand on either side of my face, his eyes now a study in curiosity. I can hardly stand to have him look at me so closely while the skin on my nose is still raw. He’s seeing me as I really am and it’s terrifying.
“No one else can know,” I whisper fiercely, digging my fingers into the meat of his arms. “No one, Bran. You understand? Old Josipa …” My voice breaks, my mind picturing her old body curling up like a withered leaf among the flames.
“I know. I know.” He wipes my tears with a handkerchief he pulls from his vest. “It is enough for me,” he says somberly, “to know the truth. And I will protect you in every way I can. I’ll tell my parents your grandmother is too ill to come, or better yet, that she died! She’s been dead for many years, in fact! I’ll make it so that you’ll never have to lie about that again.”
“Don’t lie to protect me,” I plead, prompting him to wrap his arms around me even tighter. “Just, please, be careful. We both must be so careful.”
In the end, the lies of those who love me only seem to do more harm than good. I know from experience that I can survive the pain of my splinters, but if my secret escapes beyond the small circle of me, Papa, and now Bran, I may
