Nan nods. “They’re afraid—afraid there’s magic at play, but everyone’s too scared to speak out or question it.”
“I’ve seen them,” I confess, dropping my voice low. “Our wooden soldiers. In the woods. Just a glimpse of them, but still. Somehow, they’re moving about. Wearing our uniforms and brandishing our weapons.” I look at each of them pointedly. “We could all be blamed for what’s to come.”
“Keep your voice down!” Tiffin whispers. “I say it sounds like you been seein’ things in the fog, Pirouette. A trick of the mist. You’d best keep those observations to yourself. It’s not safe to speculate otherwise.”
“What if he is planning to invade Brylov, to try and secure his place there, too, like we thought? We could all be conscripted to fight,” Fonso says bleakly. “I don’t want to leave Tavia.”
“Perhaps because we’re part of the Maker’s Guild he’ll excuse us from whatever he’s planning,” Bran adds, hope in his voice. “Without Tiffin and Mort in the smithy and Fonso in the glassworks, or my father and me in the tailor’s shop, what would people here do?”
Nan sucks her teeth. “You’re greener than grass if you think anyone is going to be ‘excused’ from what is to come. If the duke declares his intentions toward Brylov and needs an army, I guarantee that if you can lift a sword or tote a hatchet he’ll be putting your arms to his own uses. Meanwhile, Piro, Gita, and I will be left here to try and keep food in our mouths and the village from being overrun by outlander thieves and wandering vagabonds.”
Fonso reaches a hand out to steal one of Nan’s from being bitten to stubs. She stills and lets him hold it. Bran takes one of mine under the table, twining his fingers firmly through my own.
“Well, if anyone can scare away thieves and vagabonds, it’s you, Nanette Li,” Fonso says with a serious air.
Nan looks at him for a moment, unsure whether to take his words as a compliment or an insult, but in the end she bursts out laughing. Her laugh is contagious and the pressures of the last days burst in all of us, laughter spilling like a welcome flood across our parched table. We garner stares from the few other grim-eyed patrons of The Louse and Flea, but none of us care. Nan laughs until tears streak the corners of her eyes, and even Tiffin, who rarely even smiles, is left clutching his stomach.
I marvel at the gift of small moments like these, despite all I’ve lost. They are all the family I have left now, these makers.
The next day finds me locking Curio’s door and heading to the marktplatz, to stand with the others in the shadow of the clock tower at the rathaus. I’ve never seen the village in such a state. People mill about anxiously in a din of angry whispers and worried glances. Guards—real men, thank the heavens—patrol about, keeping their eyes searching for any who might cause trouble.
I push my way through the crowd, searching for the makers, and quickly land on a familiar set of bulky shoulders sporting a shaggy red head. Fonso. Tiffin, Nan, and the Sorens are here, too. Nan stands at the far edge of the cluster, arms fiercely crossed, her face a storm cloud. Gita appears deep in an argument with her husband with the baby fussing at her hip and Bran’s sisters clinging to her skirts. Bran’s eyes light on me. He steps out of range of his parents’ squabble to pull me in close.
A few minutes before noon, the duke’s black carriage arrives. People part like waving wheat to allow his retinue through. With great pomp, Laszlo von Eidle ascends the steps of the rathaus, one crisp boot-fall at a time. Before speaking, he gazes up to the clock tower and the glockenspiel, which is still frozen in the position it stopped in when Bran pulled the lever to shut it down. The duke smiles. Then he begins his proclamation, his voice surprisingly strong and resonant.
“Good people of Tavia, it is with great honor that I announce the end of our period of mourning for my father, Erling von Eidle, your late and favored Margrave. His tenure is now complete, and it is my privilege to announce that I shall ascend to his position as sovereign head of the margraviate of Tavia, as set forth in his final will and testament. This was my father’s greatest wish, being that I am his only heir.”
Anger vibrates from Bran, who squeezes my hand so fiercely I cannot feel my fingers. I glance at Anke, whose lips press so hard together they’ve disappeared in her distraught face.
“Henceforth, I endeavor to return Tavia to its former glory. The glory of an age before my father’s time, a time when we produced the kingdom’s finest goods, grew the finest crops, and lived with our enemies kept firmly in hand. Surely you know there are many who say our borders should be expanded; that the margraviates of Brylov and Tavia should be joined, to form a strong and solid southern seat in the kingdom. There are those who say only one such as I can unite them.”
“And by ‘those’ he means himself,” Nan spits under her breath.
“Time will tell,” he continues, “though my aspirations are great. I make no secret of that. If it becomes necessary to unite us through force, I trust every man and boy here will be prepared not only to defend Tavia on our own soil, but to take up arms in support of our unification.”
Distressed whispers scatter through the people like crumbs shaken from a tablecloth.
“You should also know I aim to keep the laws set forth from Elinbruk, and will tolerate no thieves or traitors among us. Nor will I allow any of the old superstitions, the old fabricated spells and magic to
