I expect to be taken straight to the Keep, but instead I am shuffled along by Baldrik and delivered deep inside the estate. Fear and curiosity wrestle in my chest like a pair of writhing vipers.
Why weren’t they shutting me in a cell? How could Bran have betrayed me? Betrayed Papa? His lies were intended to save me, but they only placed me in greater danger.
We reach the landing where the floors bleed from stone to lush carpet; my feet scuffle as I endeavor to keep up with Baldrik’s loping gait. We pass the doors of the great stateroom and continue down another ornate hall whose walls drip with ancestral portraits and cloying paintings of fruit in bowls. Every open door I pass reveals more opulence: fat, overstuffed sofas and chaises trimmed in velvet and golden braid, followed by entire rooms tiled in marble just for bathing.
At a turn in the hallway, I’m startled by a row of my father’s wooden men lining the hall, the life-sized soldiers propped up against the tapestried walls like fence posts in between mounted suits of armor. These particular soldiers are all clean, looking just as new as when we delivered them. Cold unrolls itself across my scalp at the sight.
They haven’t been used yet, not like the ones I saw in the wood.
We stop short at a set of doors painted a deep, glossy black, across which are inscribed two words in gold I don’t recognize: LECTORI SALUTEM.
The steward knocks on my behalf and a voice calls from within. “Enter!”
I stiffen at being shoved inside. The door closes soundly behind me. I find myself in a large room paneled by bookshelves that overflow with books. It’s dim, lit entirely by daylight streaming from floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard.
Avoiding fire, I muse. The slightest drip of hot wax or tip of an oil lamp could cause the whole room to go up in flames. Thousands of books of varying thicknesses and colors are stacked to the ceiling like pieces of scrap wood back at Curio.
I step farther inside, my eyes drawn to an open book illustrating the full phases of the moon, beautiful ring-shaped sketches marking the phases of waxing and waning.
“One never knows what mysteries and treasures one will find in a book,” a voice says from a shadowed corner. Laszlo von Eidle, the man who just condemned me, emerges from beneath a ladder with a thick stack of books cradled in his arms. In here, he looks almost benign; far less threatening than he did an hour ago, raking me across the coals from the front steps of the rathaus.
“Lectori salutem, Pirouette Leiter.”
“What does that mean?” I ask flatly. He’s ruined my reputation in front of the whole village; I am in no mood to bow and scrape.
Laszlo drops the heavy stack of books with a thud on the round wooden table at the center of room. It’s strewn with papers, writing utensils, measuring instruments, and a hoard of books open and layered one upon the other.
“Greetings to the reader,’” he says matter-of-factly. “The old masters used that term to greet their pupils when they entered training.”
“What if they couldn’t read?”
“Can’t you read?” Laszlo asks incredulously.
“Of course I can read,” I say indignantly. “But surely not everyone can. Sounds presumptuous.”
“Then I assume you’d hear the master deliver a different greeting. Perhaps nil volentibus arduum, in your case.”
“What’s that supposed to—”
“It means ‘nothing is impossible for the willing.’” A pale eyebrow arches sharply over glittering eyes. Their color reminds me of a watery blue paint we keep in stock at Curio.
I stare at him coldly. “Speaking as someone who is here against her will, I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”
Laszlo smiles. “Yes, well. I have high hopes for you. The proclamation you just witnessed was only the first step in my plan. Your complete humiliation was necessary, I’m afraid.”
“Necessary! How dare you blame me for how you’re using the wooden soldiers. And the saboteur! We made them at your request! And to suggest that I used them to kill the Margrave! And the clockmaker,” I rage, dropping my voice low, “is another matter entirely. He didn’t even want your bloody position, wouldn’t think of it. He wanted nothing from you or the Margrave, though we all know who was more deserving. Yet you destroyed him anyways, using one of my marionettes!”
“One of my marionettes. And you may address me as your Margrave now, apprentice,” he says icily. “The clockmaker’s death was necessary, I’m sure you understand. Though he may not have had any designs on ruling Tavia, I had to be sure. Death is truly the only method of being sure. I’ve waited long enough for my father to die, I wasn’t about to waste any more time wondering about his other filthy progeny.”
“Why would you accuse me like that, in front of the whole village?” I continue railing. “I did not animate the saboteur or the soldiers, I did not send them under the cover of night to harm or frighten people.”
“Because I am in need of a maker—you, in fact. I had to make an example of you. It’s far better for me if you are reviled and feared by the common folk. Your creations will hold much more power in their eyes when I put them to work.”
I stare at him aghast. “You need a puppetmaster? At a time like this?”
“I do,” he says, dropping to a stuffed chair at the table, ready to conduct business.
“But, you already have so many … marionettes.” I stumble on the word. “What could you possibly need another for? Especially now? You’ve raised taxes until the people hardly have anything left to give, let alone eat. You’ve been buying up most of their food! It’s monstrous!”
His lips press together, the pale pink leaching from them. I’ve disappointed him.
“I’ve
