He aims to lay blame for his father’s death on my back?
“No! She’s done nothing!” Bran yells again.
“If you are so certain of her innocence, perhaps we should let the apprentice speak in her own defense. Hear from her own lips what menace she’s brought upon us all.”
The guards force me to stand, where I gaze miserably at the crushing throng of Tavians. This is how it must have been for Old Josipa. I just know it.
“Tell us, apprentice, how you came to live in Tavia! What is the lineage of your mother? Let us hear about your fraudulent father, a shirker who failed to complete his work and pay his debts. Tell us how the two of you schemed to use these dangerous figures to your advantage, to strike at the margraviate!”
He folds his arms across his chest, looking as if he has all the time in the world, delighting in my agony. The masses fall quiet. All I can do is blink at my feet and grind my jaw. Every fiber of my being wants to tell the tale of my fabricated family origins and declare my innocence. But I cannot speak the truth without betraying Papa. I cannot defend myself. Not like this.
“Surely it’s not that difficult to talk of your past? I have it on good authority you learnt your sorcery from your father, a man beloved and trusted by many here. A man who, behind closed doors in his workshop, practiced those old spells which long ago wreaked havoc upon our law-abiding society. Spells that go against the very laws of nature!
“You have a choice here: speak now and tell us the truth, or go to the Keep. Did your father use magic to bring his creations to life? Were you not only his apprentice, but his accomplice?”
I refuse to answer. Laszlo grips my jaw tightly, mashing my cheeks in with his fingers, willing me to speak.
“I am not uncharitable. I’m willing to make concessions for the truth, if you are capable of telling it. I’ll have the guards release you now if you’ll only answer me honestly. So what shall it be? Your freedom? Or your dark secrets?”
I look around at the blur of faces through my tears, the saboteur still poised and waiting behind me. I wish I knew the words to send her barreling into the duke, to rip the smug conceit from his face.
I will not give the new Margrave nor the gawkers the satisfaction of seeing my splinters. It’s better that I resort to my old standby: silence. I will go silently to the burn pile if I must, in honor of my father. I won’t betray him by bellowing the truth. He gave up his strength and life to make me; this last stand of silence is all I can do to protect his good name.
The crowd hushes, waiting, while the makers look on, urging to me to speak up. But I cannot. I tear my face from the duke’s pincer grasp.
Laszlo sighs, looking pained on my behalf. “I am afraid you must accept the consequences of your father’s actions, and your own folly. It’s necessary to protect the people. Take her away.”
“No!” Bran screams, this time having broken free from the guards, running up to Lazlo, kneeling below us on the steps. “No! Her father did practice the old magic, I saw him. Why, I overheard it myself, one day in his workshop.”
I look at him, horrified.
“Pirouette is innocent, she was just his apprentice. She didn’t know what he was doing; how could she? It was all her father’s doing. And he’s gone now. She has done nothing wrong! Please, let her go!”
My heart snaps in two, split by a stroke of lightning, hot and searing. Laszlo looks triumphant. The crowd murmurs and rustles, the trees at the edges of the marktplatz reprimand Bran.
“She’s clearly not innocent,” Laszlo says victoriously. “See how she refuses to speak up, to defend her honor or explain her father. I have no choice but to interpret her silence as guilt. We are fortunate she hasn’t taken control of the dark assassin creature, and turned it against more innocents here in retribution. Fear not, good people! I will protect you. I possess the remedy to her dark spells.”
With a flick of his wrist and a few more muttered words, the saboteur falls to the ground, lifeless, no magic strings tugging at her. The crowd inflates in awe. Guards come to drag her away, an ungainly rag doll in their arms.
“As long as you serve me and our great territory of Tavia, and shun the dangers that bespelled our forefathers, you will be safe. Take the puppetmaster’s apprentice away!”
“No!” Bran yells indignantly. “You said you’d set her free if the truth was told! Let her go!”
Baldrik grips me under the armpits, hauling me toward a waiting wagon. Low in my ear he croons, “We had our suspicions about you, little wench, after your father’s deluded tales spilled in the Keep. But I wasn’t expecting that double-cross from the tailor’s boy!” He laughs savagely.
I can’t hear Bran’s voice above the fearful tumult of the crowd; I only see his mouth as they pull me away, performing an agonized litany.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
As if those were magic words that could ease my pain or stop what is to come.
Strangely, all I can think of as I am carried in through the Commoner’s entrance at Wolfspire Hall are the new Margrave’s hands. Those marble-white hands caressing the saboteur’s cheek when I first delivered her, the fine bones fanning protectively across the marionette’s face. I’d never seen their like before, pale and smooth, devoid of hair or calluses. Hands that knew
