“I lived—” I begin to spout the lie about my grandmother and stop short.
“With an elderly grandmother, is that right? Yes, I see that recorded here, too. What was her name, Pirouette? Did you have a lovely childhood, growing up in the bucolic village of … what was it called again? This entry just lists the location as ‘far away.’”
Anger and fear vibrate through my body. “You know nothing about me!”
“I know more than enough,” he says confidently, dropping the stack of census records and picking up the thick book of moon phases. He thrusts it into my hands. “And the tailor’s boy confirmed the rest.” He grins, pouring salt into the wound of Bran’s betrayal. “Now, I need a wife, Pirouette, a duchess built like a royal princess; a Margravina befitting the Margrave I am now.” He stands tall, tugging at the lapels of his jacket. “Hopefully, soon I will rule all of Brylov and Tavia, if the stars align. So she must be magnificent.
“I need her built and ready by the blue moon, to take advantage of its power. I’m not waiting another seven years. And it is coming soon, but you’re already aware of that, I wager. How lucky for you to get to experience the awakening power of two blue moons in your lifetime. I’m almost jealous,” he purrs. “I’m quite sure it will be one of the most exquisite things I’ll ever experience.”
He talks about the blue moon’s power as if it will be a grand spectacle, a show to be put on for his pleasure.
“I can’t possibly … do you understand what you’re asking of me? Surely there’s some great lady of Elmslip or Kirkeglenn who would be overjoyed to wed the new Margrave of Tavia?” I stammer, though in the moment I can’t name one. “A political or military alliance that would be of great benefit to you? A real noblewoman, someone of proper … stature?”
His eyes roll upwards, as if begging the heavens for patience to accommodate my slow mind.
“I will marry a real woman, Pirouette. But I don’t want just any woman, born and bred in the common way. You’ll find I don’t much care for common things,” he says darkly.
“I daresay you were born in the common way.”
A vein the color of his eyes pulses at his temple. Stepping closer, he wags a pale finger in my face. “Watch your tongue, apprentice. If you refuse, I will resort to whatever measures necessary to render from you what I desire.” He turns away from me, pacing with his hands behind his back. “After that display at the proclamation today, it’s probable you are already losing the few allies you had left—your precious makers. That tailor’s boy especially seems to have turned on you and your father. How tragic.” He rolls his eyes, stopping in front of me.
“Who knows, I may decide to burn you alive after all, at our next fall festival. What a show of force that would be! Then you can return to ash and smoke, to the nothing you came from. Or perhaps I’ll have my saboteur crush the life from your throat first,” he jeers.
Any curiosity about why he called me here has long vanished and is replaced by a feeling I recognize as hatred. It’s not a sensation I’ve had much experience with, but the young Margrave is proving an apt teacher.
“And how am I to make a real bride for you, my lord?” I ask bitingly.
Laszlo whips around with a delighted grin. “Come, my apprentice. Come and see.”
“Do you like it?” Laszlo asks, the wobble in his voice betraying a hint of apprehension.
He has dragged me from the library to a room at the end of another lengthy hallway. Wolfspire’s main estate is built like a rabbit’s warren of tunnels and stairwells and halls; I wonder how anyone finds their way around. Proudly pushing open a set of doors with both hands, he unveiled a gallery unlike any I’ve ever seen. Light tinted amber and gold streams in through the high windows, painting the room like stained glass. Laszlo enters with a holy air, his posture reminding me of a priest coming to the altar for worship.
Dozens upon dozens of marionettes hang from the walls on custom-built pegs and hooks. Some are tucked into their own small creches. Unlike Curio, these marionettes don’t seem meant for play or use, these are for display—a whole museum’s worth of characters in arrested motion. The air in this strange chapel is hollow; sterile. Laszlo’s fingers skim the dangling bodies, setting them swinging like windchimes. My head spins around. Most are pieces I’ve never seen before, their craftsmanship more amateurish and crude than I’m used to.
But some—I blink in surprise at faces I’ve long forgotten. There’s a wood nymph the size of a man’s arm, wearing a tunic of green leaves and sporting long, forked fingers, who reminds me of the old tree woman. It’s surely one of my father’s, and the resemblance to the woman, now that I’ve seen her for myself, is unmistakable.
I reach out to poke the stuffed belly of a dangling circus clown with a rotund, jeering face.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Laszlo warns. “Don’t touch, unless I say so. Some of these are priceless. Irreplaceable. No one is to touch them unless I give the word. Not even my
