“What way?” he demands.
“A metal armature, a skeleton if you will, is forged and shaped, each bone and joint soldered together. Then, a sculptor lays clay on top to create skin, fingernails, and everything to match. It would be very realistic and refined, far more elegant than what I can carve with the wood alone.”
The Margrave looks thoughtful, but I can tell he remains highly irritated. I wonder if he’s received a reply from the king about his proposition to rule Tavia and Brylov, and the news wasn’t to his liking.
“And I suppose you just happen to know an artisan or two who could produce such work in the time we have left?”
“Of course. I am part of a collective of makers and have many craftsmen and women whose work I rely on when a task is outside the scope of my skill.”
“And I also suppose that these artisans must be summoned here to help you,” he says drily.
“If you wish, yes! The makers I have in mind are Tiffin Hale, the blacksmith, and Nanette Li, the potter. If it’s perfect hands you want for your bride, they are the ones to make them for you. If a messenger could be sent—” I watch Laszlo’s face carefully. I am treading on unsteady ground today.
He looks out the windows to the conservatory. There must be a good chill in the outside air today, for the windows of the botanical conservatory are clouded with vapor.
“Fine! If it will give her the best sort of hands, and you know I only want the best, then fine,” he says petulantly. “Write up the order and I’ll have it sent. But take care, apprentice, who you are so quick to invite into my private gallery.”
My neck prickles.
“My lord?”
He turns to face me again, drumming his fingers slowly on the table. “Ask whoever you wish to aid you in making my bride, as long as they are the finest artisans in Tavia. But you may want to be a little more choosy. I’ve just been told your glassblower had an unfortunate accident with his furnace after his visit here.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Prima’s unfinished arm drops from my hand to the table with a thud.
He’s hurt Fonso! His ill-advised jibe in Laszlo’s inner sanctum must have been too much for the Margrave. Another maker hurt and the saboteur missing again, and it’s all my fault. When will this end?
I can’t bear to press Laszlo for further details, for I know he will only delight in giving them, so I bite down my bitterness and pin my eyes back on my work. I was counting on his vanity and pride to save us, to allow me to bring in each of my makers to give Prima something special and take home a little extra food and protection. My thoughts fly to the wicked, selfish fairy in the tinker’s tale, cruelly turning the maiden’s bread to stones.
One by one, he will harm them, if he feels threatened by their presence. We must be so cautious.
“Tell me, apprentice, have you given any thought to what she might wear?” the Margrave asks, toying with one of Prima’s legs. I am still seething over the news of Fonso’s injury. What did the Margrave do to him?
“Wear, my lord?”
“Well, surely I can’t have her looking like this,” he says, pointing to the marionette splayed on the table. At this stage, she looks like the ghost of a woman who jumped off a bridge, arms and legs all afloat.
“Is she to be awakened in a royal ball gown or a wedding dress? Something that looks quite regal? Or should she appear in something more demure, as is befitting a bride? We really should have a tailor round to take measurements,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you agree?”
“A tailor,” I breathe, my mouth dry as sawdust.
“Of course, a tailor! You must write up an order for him as well. Do it quick. But not the younger tailor,” he says, chewing on his lips. “No, I want the older tailor. The younger can stay put,” he says, his face cracking into a smile, the first I’ve seen in a few days. “For I may have special need of him.”
I force myself to continue joining the princess’s elbow. He’s trying to goad me.
“Very wise, my lord. Benito Soren will create a gown for her that will be both spectacular and uncommon. He’s the best,” I say, slowly and evenly.
“I should like to oversee the design. Otherwise it may not be grand enough. Tell the tailor he must consult with me as soon as he arrives.”
“Of course,” I manage to choke out. “I’ll send the orders with a guard right away.” I move the princess’s forearm back and forth, inspecting how smoothly the joints rotate on their pins, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill from the corners of my eyes.
“See that you do,” the Margrave says, “you know we’re pressed for time. Some of us more than others.”
Later that night, after sending for Nan and Tiffin and the tailor, I fall into the narrow bed in the closet, winding my aching hands beneath my head for a pillow. My doubts are as numerous as the scratches and bruises on my weary body.
When my chance at escape comes, do I take it? Do I choose freedom from the Margrave over liberation from my splinters?
Everything in me revolts at the idea of abandoning Prima and the saboteur to Laszlo. I feel a bond with them, a kinship. If I leave before the blue moon, before taking the chance to awaken Prima, who knows what the Margrave will do with her?
I’m garnering every tool at my disposal to ensure she comes together as a woman of strength, valiance, and beauty, hoping she can hold her own against the Margrave and do Tavia some real good. Making her is my act of rebellion; I’m
