The surge of pride his praise evokes burns my throat like solvent. He rises and comes around the table, his fingers grazing the moon book as he walks closer. In his eyes, I read a dangerous mixture: greed and desire.
“Now I need something more; something real.”
I edge back toward the door. Even with nary a flame to be seen, the library feels hot and close, void of air.
“I want someone, to be precise. And if you’d like to live, you are going to make her for me.”
CHAPTER 19
“YOU WILL MAKE ME A BRIDE. A WIFE.”
My mouth hangs open. He’s completely unhinged. Off his anvil, as Tiffin would say.
“Urn …” I clear my throat, scrambling for some semblance of sanity. “My lord, you are aware that I am just a puppetmaster’s apprentice. Surely I cannot create an actual wife for you—”
“Oh, but I think we both know that you can,” he says with a cold smile. “You created the saboteur, and she has far exceeded any of my wishes. Not a bad beginning. Not bad at all.” His blinding mouth is all teeth.
“But even if I created such a marionette, you do understand that she would not be … real? Alive?” I say, grasping for words to explain reality to him. “Surely you cannot marry a marionette!” My mind spins. The same nausea that overtook me upon discovering the dead soldier in the woods begins to rise in my throat.
His eyes shift to a cloudy gray. “No, surely not.” He steps even closer, too close, one hand reaching out to trace my cheek. The marble touch I imagined earlier is not far from the truth. A chill snakes its way across my shoulders as he cups my chin and tilts it, examining my face, this time far more calculating than his performance for the crowd. My whole body goes rigid; I gnaw at the inside of my cheek.
“But then, I don’t intend to marry a marionette. You are an excellent example of what I intend, aren’t you? You’re extraordinary, Pirouette. The craftsmanship … it’s truly astonishing.”
My lungs tighten like corset strings.
“Now, naturally I will want something with more exquisite features, more of an elegant beauty, you understand. And,” he looks critically down at my slim chest and narrow hips, “more of a womanly figure to suit my royal personage.” He claps his hands together, as if the matter is all settled. “We’ll work the details out as we go—I’ve been preparing sketches.”
My tongue seems coated with iron from Tiffin’s forge. How does he know?
“What do you mean, my lord? That I am an example of what you intend?”
“Besides what your friend out there confirmed for me, I had your father here for a little visit to the library recently, while he was staying in the Keep.” Blood floods my face. “He wasn’t entirely … sober, shall we say. Poor man was definitely suffering from some malady, but I brought him up to probe him a bit about his work. To learn from him. It isn’t every day you have a great puppetmaster staying in your house. I intended to take advantage of it.”
My anger flares to hear of my father’s “stay” in that vile dungeon talked of as it were a cordial visit for tea.
“While he wasn’t lucid, he really was very descriptive, you might say, about his techniques and his most special projects. I’ve always been fascinated with figurines, you see, and the process of making them. I have quite a few books here,” he says with a sweep of his hand, “that detail the history and lore of puppetry. It’s as old as humankind. But there are some gaps. Some things I didn’t know. I needed your father to enlighten me.”
“And … did he?” I whisper, fearful of the answer.
Laszlo picks up one of my arms, scrutinizing the joints at my elbow and wrist, bending them this way and that, inspecting the delicate skin between my fingers. A memory flashes at me, from when I was newly made: a boy toying with a dead sparrow in the gutter. It petrified me then, seeing the soft, vulnerable under feathers of the tiny wing spread out and contracted over and over again, for sport.
“He told me one very interesting tale in particular, a tale some might consider too fantastical to be true. But I, unlike some, have spent the last twenty years honing my ears.” His eyes lock on my own. “When you are a duke who isn’t allowed to do much more than sit in the shadows and appear ornamental—a result of my previous constitution, which I assure you is now quite sound—you find ways to pass the time. Me? I’ve made a habit of listening.”
I wrench my arm from his grasp. He still hasn’t answered my question.
“What did he tell you?”
“That his prized possession was a child, a daughter made by his own two hands from the very woods surrounding Tavia. That one night, nearly seven years ago, the light of the blue moon brought her to life.”
“My father was very ill, my lord. The pressure of keeping up with the Margrave’s unreasonable deadlines and the filth he contracted in your Keep destroyed him. You would be foolish to trust whatever he might have rambled in such a state.” I lift my chin in defiance.
“Perhaps. But I am not just any fool,” he says smugly. “Though, according to the records, you could be, couldn’t you, Pirouette Leiter? Look here,” he says, reaching for a bound stack
