“Your name does not begin with a ‘P.’”
“I am pleased you remember, since it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other,” he says with mock gravity.
“Is it for me?”
“Well,” he replies with a long exhale, “I was rather hoping that Prudence Shoemacher, the cobbler’s daughter, would want it, but alas, she has her eye set on the fetchingly large frame of the milliner’s apprentice. There’s no chance for me, a lowly tailor’s son and fledgling watchmaker with very slender shoulders to catch her eye. So, I suppose you could have it. Seeing as your first initial is also ‘P’. It makes sense.”
I snort. “Prudence Shoemacher has been sweet on you since you moved into The Golden Needle and you know it.” Her and every other Tavian girl with a pair of eyes in their skulls.
“Well, then Prudence Shoemacher will have to be disappointed,” he says with a look that causes my heartbeat to overflow into my cheeks, “because I made that watch for you, Pirouette Leiter.”
I look down at the watch again—it is a beauty.
“As much as I hate to disappoint Prudence Shoemacher,” I say, with a grin, “I will keep it. Thank you.” I nestle it into a pocket and reach again for one of his hands, eager to absorb some of his heat.
“You remember, Piro, what we talked about the night you finished the saboteur?” he asks, brushing my nose gently with his thumb.
As if it hasn’t been on my mind nearly every waking moment since, despite all the chaos.
“I’m so glad you told me. So many things about you make sense to me now.”
“Was I that confusing?”
He tips my chin up, so that my eyes are forced to meet his.
“Not confusing. Complex. I’ve never known anyone touched by magic before. But the way you work with wood and the way the puppets seem to come alive under your hands … that look you get in your eye sometimes when you’re carving, as if you’re hearing voices; it all makes sense now.
“What,” he prods gently, “was it like? Do you remember?”
“Before the spell, or after?”
“Both.”
“Ah.” I start haltingly, unused to speaking of such personal memories out loud. “I remember my father and how big he seemed, how kind. And my body, how strange it felt, to move and to walk—to go wherever I wished! People are always gallivanting about, chasing after things and looking after things. It all took a good deal of time to get used to.”
“And before?” His voice drops low, his breath on my ear sends a flutter down my neck.
“Before …” I remember back to what seems like eons ago, when I stood with roots and not feet, with branches bared beneath every storm and phase of the moon. A time when the passing seasons were the only clock I knew. A time that felt sacred. “Before, it was different. It seems that in some ways, I knew more, then. I understood things I’ve now forgotten—the language of the birds, the way of the flowers, the signals of the sky. So many things I’ve lost.”
He presses his lips to the top of my head. “When I was younger, I used to imagine that all of my lost things—a favorite rock, or a bit of paper, or my best sewing kit—had lives of their own that had just gone on without me. They weren’t lost at all. Perhaps that’s how it will be for us someday, Piro. We’ll realize the things and people we’ve lost aren’t really lost at all, they’ve just gone on journeying without us,” he says hopefully.
“Perhaps.” I squeeze his hand and nestle my head into his shoulder.
But Bran’s fanciful idea brings me little comfort. I’ve lost a father, a friend, and a masterpiece in the space of mere days. And now one of those has begun a journey into darkness beyond the limits of my imagination. Would that I could turn the clock back, to the time before we all were lost.
CHAPTER 17
THAT EVENING, BEFORE THE DUKE’S PROCLAMATION, I FORCE myself to go out to meet the makers, to warn them about the soldiers. To make my apologies for missing Emmitt’s burial. I watch the street corners warily, my eyes hunting for signs of approaching soldiers or a glimpse of the saboteur. But the streets are quiet tonight.
I am the last to arrive at The Louse and Flea, which is nearly empty. Without a word, I settle myself beside Bran and inspect each maker’s face. Fonso pours a mugful from his pitcher, Nan at his side. He appears calm, while she looks like a kettle ready to blow, eyes bright and furious, busily biting her nails. Tiffin looks glum, staring at the surface of the old trestle table as though trying to divine some mystery from its grain.
“Perhaps it won’t be so bad,” Nan finally says in a stilted voice.
“What?” Tiff asks.
“The proclamation. At least we’ll get to hear it for ourselves. The duke can be assured of his position, and then maybe we can all go back to normal. Sorry, Pirouette,” she says, reaching across to squeeze my hand. “As normal as we can, now, with fewer of us at the table. On the other hand, I’ve half a mind to come tomorrow with my pockets full of stones to take that gormless maggot down a few notches.”
“That’s my girl.” Fonso looks at her admiringly.
“Stoning isn’t painful enough for the likes of him,” Tiffin replies flatly. “Besides, your aim is too good, Nan. It would be over far too quickly.”
“True.” She sighs.
“You may want to save your rocks or whatever weapons you can lay your hands on for another foe. Rumors are flying thick as flocking geese about the duke’s soldiers,” Bran says. “Real or wooden, it’s all anyone can talk about, everyone that comes in the Needle. Troops have been seen gathering in the woods, setting up boundaries. Patrolling the edges of the territory. People can’t tell if
