Taking a handkerchief from my pocket, I reach out cautiously to wipe the blood and dirt from her open hand. She observes my fingers, the way I utilize the scrap of fabric and pat her gently when done, the way a mother would, cleaning a child’s scrape. Once I’ve finished, I find her reaching to take the handkerchief for herself. My cheeks burn as she turns it toward me, gently dabbing the still-visible wound on my nose.
“A splinter,” I explain. “Apparently, where we come from,” I point to the trees, “splinters are somewhat inescapable.”
She nods, seeming to think me daft for not knowing that before.
“Come,” I reach for her hand, sensing the mounting danger of being out in the woods, in the open, with her. “Come with me.”
“Danger among us!” her voice reverberates in my skin. “The shadows are loosed.”
“You will be safe. You needn’t go where Laszlo has bade you. You don’t have to do what he says. He is not your master,” I insist. “I made you.”
Bearing an undeniable guardianship for the saboteur, I long to protect her from him. My mind cannot conceive what the young duke intends for this dark creature, but I understand now her true purpose is a hostile rather than decorative one. That he would take something so beautiful and use it for violent ends!
The power of her animated form almost makes me feel ashamed of the naive exuberance with which I built her, of those exhausting days at Curio when her construction consumed me, of the joy carving her gave to me. Building her was a relief, especially after the rigid limitations of a year spent laboring over wooden soldiers, a distraction from the pain of watching Papa grow weaker. I poured the full extent of my skill and imagination into the saboteur, not holding anything back, ultimately delivering to Wolfspire Hall a marionette the duke wished to wield like a freshly forged blade.
This is all my fault—our fault. We presented the weapons right into his waiting hands. The soldiers. The uniforms and broadswords. The saboteur.
I wonder how to smuggle her back to Curio. Perhaps I could persuade her to go limp, and drag her down the back alleys to the rear workshop door? I could hide her in my attic room, keep her locked away if necessary, somewhere she could do no more damage. Where I wouldn’t have to watch my best workmanship ruined by Laszlo’s abuses. Or perhaps I should take her away from here, high into the mountains. If we ran far enough from his reach, maybe the magical ties binding her would be broken.
“I made you,” I repeat, hoping to appeal to whatever loyalty she might possess. “You belong with me. Let’s go now, it isn’t safe here.” I pull at her hand, but her fingers slip through my own like water. Her head darts, watching the surrounding fog.
She hears something again, something I cannot. Connected to the forest in a deep and primal way, she motions for me to retreat back to the safety of the pines.
Soldiers again?
I obey as she deftly reaches for something in her vest pocket. Then, the saboteur leaves me behind in the trees, her dark head drifting away like a departing ship on a sea of fog. I wait and watch for a few tense moments. Then, in the distance, a sharp zing meets my ears, the sound of an arrowhead striking true.
Then I hear a cry. A very human cry. The trees fall silent.
I stay a moment more, hoping she’ll reappear. But the saboteur never comes back. With my throat burning and fear supplying the last of my strength, I decide to leave, with or without her. I must return to Curio, to make sure the only family I have left will be kept safe from the havoc of wooden soldiers set loose on the territory. A havoc I helped unleash. I must warn the Maker’s Guild.
Shivering, I creep slowly from the evergreen hollow. Wading warily from tree to tree, more fearful than ever of what lurks behind them, I nearly trip over the startled body of a Wolfspire Hall guard. My foot tentatively prods his side, but the man doesn’t stir. This soldier is fully human, dressed in the Margrave’s livery, just like his wooden counterparts. Bending down to examine him, I see his skin is still warm to the touch, the look on his face one of frozen shock. With fresh dread, I spot the cause of his demise: a finely notched brass clock gear planted between the eyes, embedded deep in his skull.
Unable to suspend my terror, I retch beside him into a wide spray of leatherleaf ferns, my empty gullet heaving without respite. Stumbling blindly around the body, I tear into a run through the trees, straining for the edges in the distance where thicket meets the meadow.
As I gallop away like a wounded animal, the weight of the matching clock gear in my pocket nearly buckles my knees. I cannot catch my breath. Where I fled to the wood days ago seeking a place to hide and lick my wounds, now I crave air and light. The trees feel too close, too towering. I am too small in their accusing shadows, their branches casting pointed blame directly on my head.
The saboteur is lost to me now, untethered and out of my control. My hopes for returning home to start anew after Papa and Emmitt’s deaths are soundly crushed. How can I pick up my chisel and
