He brightens. “And won’t the citizens of Brylov and Tavia be delighted to attend the wedding of their new Margrave? People will be so tired of death and squabbling by then. Think of it, the feasting and dancing! Such a celebration will surely unite us all!”
I nod grimly, letting him think I am in agreement with his preposterous plan. If we actually make it to a wedding, I’ll be the first to dance a jig at the feast—if I’m not strung up by my neck.
“Is there anything else, apprentice, to add to your odious list of requirements? You should know that ordinarily I would not brook such demands from a maker. I am the one who gives the orders here.”
“If I am to build for you anything remotely resembling a princess,” I quickly begin thinking out loud, “then I shall need the best materials.”
“Naturally.”
“I must return to the woods to secure the right pieces. And to Curio to select the tools I will need. What you have here is … adequate,” I gesture to the tools that have been laid out for me in the gallery, “but they are not my own. A maker can’t be expected to work with tools they are not comfortable with.”
Laszlo grimaces. “Fine. But you will be shackled and accompanied by my steward and return here later tonight. You will sleep here and stay here, so that I may keep an eye on your progress. We haven’t much time. The blue moon is less than a month away, and I want her to be perfect. Can you really do it, Pirouette Leiter?” he asks, clasping his hands. The marbled knuckles turn purple where he presses his fingertips in between their ridges. His eyes remind me of the puppet in his own likeness hanging behind him: far too earnest. “Can you make me a princess? A Margravina to put all others to shame?”
If I don’t answer honestly, I’ll be explaining splinters to him. I’m not eager to give the new Margrave anything else to hold over my head.
“Yes. I can.” I sigh.
Cursed if I do, cursed if I don’t. I don’t wish to, but I will make him a princess marionette unlike any he’s ever dreamed of.
“Though if she is to live—that, my lord, I have no control over. I’ve never attempted what you speak of … an awakening.”
“Leave it to me to arrange the perfect conditions,” he says confidently. “If you know the spell, it can’t be that difficult, no more than a few magic words spoken in moonlight. After all, your father, a mere maker, did it. And look at you now!”
Yes, I think, my stomach turning sour, as I am ushered out and turned over to a waiting guard. Look at me now.
CHAPTER 20
JUST OUTSIDE THE ENTRANCE TO CURIO, THE STEWARD WAITS impatiently, having sent another guard round back to make sure I don’t escape. I hurry inside to find most of my makers cloistered in the workshop, looking miserable—Bran, especially. I cannot bring myself to meet his eyes.
“Piro!” Nan throws her arms around me. “Where did they take you? What have you been sentenced with? Are you free to go? Surely this is all a terrible mistake!”
“Don’t believe a word of it, Piro,” groused Fonso. “He’s a barmy liar! None of this is your doing. He’s just using you!”
“A fool always looks for an easy mark,” Tiffin growls, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry he chose you.”
Bran stares at me helplessly.
“I’ll be all right. But I must make a special order for the duke—er, the new Margrave. I’m just here to get my things and am ordered to return to Wolfspire Hall. I’ll be staying there now,” I say stiffly, motioning to the broad back of Baldrik keeping watch at the door.
“Staying there?” Bran repeats dismally.
“What was it like, Piro?” Tiffin asks. “Did you see the weapons Mort and I have been making? Is everything in the living quarters covered in gold? Have you seen the kitchens? I’ve heard they’re storing all the bread a hundred loaves deep in straw, piled to the ceiling!”
Fonso knocks him in the chest with a thump of his hand. “Is food the only thing on your mind at a time like this, you lanky duffer? Piro’s just been given a terrible sentence by the new Margrave, folks are scared witless about a possible skirmish with Brylov, and you’re thinking about bread.”
“I’m blasted hungry,” Tiff mutters, “and I’ve never been inside Wolfspire Hall. If I’m going to die in service of the Margrave, I’d like to know how the other side lives before I go.”
“None of you are going to die in service to our Margrave or his offal,” Nan growls. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“It seems like nothing we say makes any difference at this point,” Fonso offers glumly.
Nan utters a blaze of furious oaths in the direction of his despondency.
“Well done, lover boy,” Tiffin rolls his eyes.
“What can we do, Piro? What do you need?” Nan says. “Can Fonso hide you in the theater wagon and spirit you away from here? Anything to keep you from the Keep?”
“There’s nothing you can do for me. What’s done is done. Help me pack. Just you,” I say shoving wordlessly past Bran. Nan follows close behind.
In the workshop, I fill an old trunk with necessary tools and paint to take back to Wolfspire Hall. I can’t help but think of my father as I layer in our best chisels and calipers and spokeshaves.
What would he say if he were here now? What would he do?
My stomach sinks, imagining he might quietly go along with Laszlo’s orders, making whatever the man desired simply because we could use
