Despite the forced strangeness of being together in the gallery, I am eager to see what he’s brought and how a pair of iron-forged hands might look on one of my creations. I’ve never tried this method before with a marionette and I know my father would have been proud to see it attempted.
Tiffin pries open the lid of a wooden crate he brought along and lifts out a set of well-matched metal armature. The wrists are delicate, the finger-bone rods splayed out from iron bands that form the palms, the five slender fingers attached with knuckles of hardened metal. Though they are just the skeleton of a woman’s hands, they look strong and aristocratic; bones that might brandish a cup of tea and a knife with the same grace.
He looks up at me, his eyes filled with one question. “Good?”
I nod. “Just right.”
“At least something in here will be.”
While Tiffin attaches the wrists to Prima’s forearms, drilling with his awl and securing them with screws, Nan begins kneading a huge batch of white-gray clay I know is usually reserved for her finest pieces, for fragile platters and vases and such.
Once Tiffin has the hands properly attached, Nan begins her half of the work. The hours pass quickly with them here, watching them work. Laszlo flutters in and out to watch our progress.
Under Nan’s deft fingers, the princess’s bones begin to bloom with skin and structure. Rounded fingernails emerge from the fingertips as if they grew there. Nan pads the light muscle of Prima’s palms, gently creasing her knuckles at the joints, drawing each wrinkle across the skin with precision. When she finally looks up at me, the daylight has vanished from the gallery windows and her face is flushed from concentration.
“What do you think?”
“Brilliant,” I say, sad to break the happy reverence of the afternoon. “I could never have achieved that same effect with wood.”
She wipes her forehead with a dusty sleeve. “Well, to each element its own strength; wood has qualities that clay can never match. But, if I do say so myself,” she says, standing to stretch and clutch at cramping muscles in her neck, “that’s a pair of beautiful hands, fit for any noble lady.”
“They’re amazing, Nan,” I say, reaching out to run a finger across the palms. The ridges in my fingertips drag across the smooth, still-wet clay, leaving a tiny smudge.
“Don’t touch, Piro! You know we can’t fire them, it would ruin the whole thing. You must allow them to air-dry without disturbance.”
As Nan and Tiff are returning their tools and materials to their carrying cases, the Margrave billows in again to see what’s taking so long. The makers keep quiet while he bends over the wooden princess, examining her new hands. I can tell from the way Tiffin throws the tools into his kit and the fury in his eyes that he’s considering yanking one of the Margrave’s marionettes off the wall and beating him over the head with it. Nan reaches out, steadying the smithy with a firm touch of her hand.
Laszlo makes an inane series of speculative sounds, little grunts and murmurs, the sounds of an expert surveying a new treasure. He finally pops his head up, looking extraordinarily pleased.
“Exceedingly lifelike. I would never have thought clay and iron together could make something of such elegance.”
Nan takes his back-handed compliment in stride, throwing her satchel over her shoulder. “It’s amazing what a maker can do with such simple elements, isn’t it, my lord?”
“Indeed. I will keep note of your names for future projects,” Laszlo says, trying to sound magnanimous.
“Delighted, my lord,” Nan replies. “Might Pirouette see us out? I want to make sure she understands my instructions for proper drying and ventilation of the clay.”
Laszlo’s pale brow wrinkles. He hasn’t let me off this floor since I arrived. I’ve taken all of my meals here, used a chamber pot in the conservatory that’s emptied for me daily, and have generally only been keeping company with him, the guards, and the marionettes in the gallery.
“No,” he replies, though I can tell he struggles to resist the allure of Nan. “She must stay here and keep working. My guards will see you out. Back to work,” he bids me, gliding out after them.
When the moon rises that night, I allow myself one candle for light and creep from my closet, praying Laszlo isn’t underfoot in the gallery, consorting with his marionettes. Bran wrote that when a gift came for the Margrave, so would my means of escape. Nan also intimated as much, though she didn’t tell me specifics.
What would it be? A door left unwatched? Help from the kitchen porter? I’ve had no interruptions from anyone for hours and the saboteur still hasn’t returned to her cage.
“Keep watch!” the trees call from the conservatory.
Drawn to her like a moth to the flame, I pull the Lady Cosima down from her hooks. Perhaps she’s my means of escape. She was the gift, after all.
Heart thundering, I pilfer her dress, feeling along the seams and under her voluminous skirts for where a key or weapon might have been sewn in along the ribbing. Nothing. Feverishly, I turn her upside down, sliding my fingers along her joints and body, tapping my fingernails against her skull. I shake her. Nothing comes loose. She’s not hollow; her body is solid linden. When I’ve gone over every inch of her, turning out every possible place to hide something sharp, I nearly throw the puppet to the floor; I barely stop myself from destroying a piece that was so important to my father.
Nan clearly said, “Take the gift of freedom when it’s offered to you,” didn’t she?
That’s when my eyes fall on the chest Lady Cosima arrived in, still open on the worktable. Cautiously, I run my hands over the lid and pull out all the paper stuffing, shaking it out. The small chest is empty. Except, if this was
