“But, my lord,” I say, startled, “that will be in the middle of the night. Shouldn’t we allow her some time to adjust? To see that she’s safely through from one form to the next? It might be a difficult transition—”
“By the dawn of tomorrow, I want to be married and to show her off to the rest of the territory as my bride.”
“But you said the people will want a wedding, something to look forward to? After all they’ve been through?”
“The commoners can go hang! The clodding lot of them are rebellious, vile, and can’t be trusted. They’re always plotting! They’ve tried to turn the king against me! So we will marry tonight, after she awakens. What better thing to come to life for, than to become an instant bride, an immediate Margravina? She’ll never want for anything!”
Except a few moments’ peace.
“You are to go and bathe yourself; make yourself presentable for her,” Laszlo says, looking me over with distaste. I know I have glue in my hair and paint on my cheeks. My dress is rumpled, my apron dirty, and my hands are in a ghastly state. “Rest a bit, if you must, for you will be unshackled only to perform the blue moon ceremony tonight,” he says begrudgingly. “I will stay here and keep my bride company.”
I look to the saboteur’s cage; it’s empty. She’s been sent away again. So I shuffle off to my closet of a room, where someone has already hauled up a tub of water and left a meager sliver of soap. I scrub myself from head to toe, using up every bit of the soap trying get off as much paint, glue, and resin as possible while in my chains. Then, I put on the only other clean dress I have from home. I brush my short hair, knowing it will dry quickly, and lie down on the bed.
If Laszlo will be spending all day at Prima’s side, I don’t think I can stomach joining him. I’ll stay in here. I need time to think.
I don’t know what the blue moon will bring for Prima and I; we may be trapped here at Wolfspire Hall the rest of our days. But I cannot allow Bran to rot. The thought of Bran never recovering from the Keep, like Papa, breaks my heart. Can I at least help him escape, even if I can’t help myself?
When the guard knocks and leaves my luncheon tray, I am forced to rise and eat. After drinking some tea, my thoughts clear. Tea will do that for you. To my knowledge, neither Laszlo nor anyone else is wise to our scheme and Marco has kept mum about the whole thing. I reach for the remaining few precious francs I siphoned off from paying the tailor to place some below the teacup’s downturned shell so that Marco will have money to bribe the guards managing the food stores.
A new thought arrives, like a chisel driving through the soft wood of my brain: the tailor’s sewing kit. I still have it in my dirty apron. I dip into the cloth envelope and pull out two needles pinned in some wool, a wee pair of scissors, some white buttons, and a tool I haven’t yet needed: a miniature seam ripper, the size of my little finger. Just the tool you could use to pick a lock, with its sharp end curved like a fish hook.
With my heart in my throat, knowing the Margrave is on the other side of my door, now always slightly ajar from the intrusion of my long chain, I snip a piece of thread from a tiny spool in the kit. Quickly I bind the seam ripper to the small hidden stack of coins. On a scrap of paper, I scratch out a quick note to Marco, hoping my few words will make sense, and that he might be willing to risk using these francs to bribe a guard at the Keep. Or to take the risk and deliver the seam ripper to Bran himself. I realize I am putting a lot of faith in a man I have never met, but he has come through for me thus far.
Let’s hope your cousin is still up for it, Fonso.
I fold my note into a discrete square, placing it just below the coins and seam ripper. I set my empty teacup upside down on top of the whole lot, praying it remains undisturbed until Marco’s hands reach for the dishes. Bran’s fate rests in the hands of the kitchen porter and the shelter of a teacup.
When the guard comes for the tray, I hold my breath as he carries it away, the empty dishes rattling past both me and Laszlo out into the depths of Wolfspire Hall.
When the dinner tray comes, I find I have no appetite. The worry of waiting for the moon to rise is more than enough to fill my belly. I check under the fresh teacup on the tray to see if there is any sign from the kitchen porter that my message has been received, but there’s nothing.
Laszlo spends the day pacing around the worktable, talking to himself, the princess, and the other marionettes. I try to stay quiet and well out of his way. I tidy and pack up my most prized tools brought over from Curio, hoping against hope that one way or another my time in the gallery is nearly at an end.
As night draws close, Laszlo has my shackle unlocked and insists I help him carry the princess out to the conservatory. He has a special table prepared, and while I think it looks like a funeral pyre, I keep quiet; he is so proud of it. He had thin hazel switches cut and woven into a bed, interlaced with willows and greenery. Among the greenery he placed flowers, late-blooming white lobelias and fall lilies. Together we lay Prima upon the
