“We’ll see,” Fonso says mysteriously.
The note begins to burn where it lies, unopened against my chest.
“What of the others?” I ask.
“All well, mostly just hungry and bone-tired. Tiffin is more of a grouchy lummox than ever—being cooped up in the smithy day and night hasn’t improved his mood—but all send you their good wishes. ‘Specially Bran.”
“Well, if I have my way, there will be more work for each of you, hopefully sooner rather than later,” I say, giving Fonso a knowing glance at the body of the princess marionette. I can tell from the light in his eyes he understands that I, too, am up to something.
“Fonso, you still have a cousin who works in the kitchens? A serving lad?”
“Marco Donati, the kitchen porter. The Margrave kept all his personal servants and inherited a few of his father’s. Got to keep those noble bellies full and their backs scratched.”
“Good. I need you to ask him something for me on your way out, if you can manage it. I would do it myself if Laszlo ever let me out of his sight, but so far I have a guard with me at all times and can’t roam.”
From a crate on my worktable, I lift out a pouch of thirty gold francs. Hastily, I scoop them up and drop them into the pouch Fonso used to deliver the glass eyes to me and pull the strings tight.
“If anyone asks on your way out, consider this your payment for your services, for our most generous Margrave did leave it for you. I know it’s not much. But I have an idea, if you can convince Marco to work with us and think he can be trusted.”
Fonso strokes his red-bristled chin. “Does this idea involve breaking into the hoard of food being stored in Wolfspire Hall’s rathskeller?”
“It might,” I whisper back, “if you are willing. Help yourself to whatever is left in the coffers at Curio. The shop is locked, but Bran knows a way to get in without being seen. Papa would want you to have it.
“Then, on your way out, give this to Marco. It should be more than enough to allay the risk of Marco smuggling out several loaves of bread and vegetables each day from the cellars for you all, and some oats for Burl. The Soren girls are seeing to him.
“Arrange for Nan to stop by the Commoner’s entrance each day and have Marco slip the supplies to her with the normal rations, perhaps hidden in one of her large pots—you know, the kind she likes to show off around town by balancing on her head. Tell Marco that, after today, I will leave any additional francs that can be spared for extra food for the makers under a teacup on the tray the guards bring me.”
Fonso nods slowly, but whistles again. “Piro, that will buy a goodly amount of bread. Aren’t sure you shouldn’t hold a little something back for yourself?”
I shake my head. “They feed me, and Laszlo hasn’t killed me yet, so that’s enough for me for now. But I can’t stand to think of Gita and the children or Nan going hungry when I’m sitting several stories above a mountain of food that is surely going to waste. If there’s enough to share with the neighbors, they’ll know who needs it—”
The door is thrown open suddenly, and Laszlo drops in on us like a hawk circling his prey.
“Well? Can she see?”
Fonso stands, trying to look courtly by sucking in his belly and puffing out his chest.
“See for yourself, my lord,” I say, gesturing to the eyes of the princess, set like green gems in her face.
Laszlo leans in close, putting a slender hand on either of her cheeks, which are still rough.
“Yes, those are just as I proposed. Excellent work, erm—”
“Donati,” Fonso pipes up. “Alfonso Donati, glass smith.”
“You are to be commended for your fine work. I’ll have one of the guards show you out. I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your little shop, so we shan’t keep you here any longer.” He sniffs impatiently. I can tell he doesn’t trust Fonso, doesn’t like having outsiders in his private sanctuary. He’s proud of his collection of marionettes, but smart enough to know most people consider his obsession with them a bit … odd.
“I love what you’ve done with the place, my lord,” Fonso says, straight-faced, with a nod to all the marionettes gathering on the walls. “So many toys in here. It’s all very enchanting.”
I bite my lip at Fonso’s little dig. Laszlo glowers, his cheeks staining. “Isn’t it? I find it very restorative to spend time among my collection. I assume you find it scintillating to be among your fires and furnaces? How quaint. You must prefer the heat.”
“Surely don’t mind it,” Fonso says unflinchingly, and he bows. Just out of the Margrave’s view, the glass smith flashes me one last wicked grin. The coins in his purse chink together quietly as he leaves. The sound makes me happy.
If I have my way, we’ll be using von Eidle gold to pay for food to feed the very people they stole it from. I pick up a chisel and return to work, ignoring Laszlo, who lingers like a bad smell in the gallery. I can scarcely wipe the smile from my face for the rest of the day.
Later that night, I finally dare to light a candle. Though Laszlo has a deathly fear of fire for the damage it might do to his marionettes, he does allow me a few slow-burning candles behind glass with which to work at night. If I was only able to labor by daylight, I’d have no chance of completing the princess on time.
With a precious candle flickering, I slip the back of my chair under the door handle, barricading myself in my closet. I curl
