“You are already free to do as you please,” I pipe up.
Anger pulses on Laszlo’s face. Prima regards him warily and doesn’t move from the tree.
“She’s just jealous of you, of your beauty and your position, my Margravina. Disregard her. She’s nothing but a common apprentice. You are royalty. Come and stand here with me, and let us talk awhile. Or, if you prefer, you needn’t speak at all. You must be tired from your … journey. We can let the cleric here do all the talking for us, isn’t that right, man?”
Vincenzo nods, holding up the lantern he brought with him, looking utterly mystified by the beautiful woman in the bloody dress who won’t let go of the tree.
Prima looks from Laszlo to me, and finally speaks after a long silence. “I will stand near you, but only if she is at my side,” she says, pointing to me.
Laszlo smiles through gritted teeth, “Of course, my darling, whatever you wish. The puppetmaster can be a witness to our joy.” He hurls another warning glare my way. If Laszlo’s looks could kill, I’d have been dead days ago. Too bad for him I’m still breathing.
And so is Prima. She walks deliberately toward me, and reaches forward to clasp one of my hands in her own. I feel the reassuring pressure of her fingers, gripping mine like our lives depend on it. She is even more astonishing up close. Her skin is warm and clear, her eyes bright. Her face is a sea of expressions, shifting from wonder to confusion to revulsion and back again. I don’t know how to explain the awe I feel, seeing someone who is like me, in the flesh, but someone already so much more magnificent than I will ever be. Someone I helped bring into being.
Laszlo is just pleased to have his bride in the vicinity of the cleric. He approaches cautiously; I don’t doubt that his arm is deeply bruised where she seized it. Before the cleric starts to intone the standard wedding fare, the princess’s hand quickly releases mine and plunders my apron pocket, quick as an accomplished thief.
I panic. The Margrave’s knife will be all too visible in her hand, for she has no sleeves. But my fears are allayed when from the corner of my eye, I watch as her hand is swallowed up by the deep folds of Tailor Soren’s exquisite dress. The skirts are so voluminous; it seems she’s discovered a secret sewn-in pocket that I missed.
My face cracks a smile at the tailor’s provision and Laszlo, who has just turned to face us to begin his vows, notices. His eyes darken. The air around us is still tinged blue from the moonlight, though it’s quickly losing its deep luster.
“Cleric, you may commence with the ceremony and do what you came here to do.”
“I object,” I say staunchly, letting my splinter drop from my sleeve, keeping it hidden in my palm.
Laszlo rolls his eyes. “You get no say in the matter. I am the Margrave of Tavia, and this woman is to be my Margravina.”
“I object,” Prima calmly repeats after me.
“The lady objects,” I concur.
“I do,” she agrees.
“Oh my, there are objections already,” Vincenzo stammers. “We’ve not even begun!”
“Shut up! All of you!” Laszlo screeches. “You,” he says, pointing to Prima, “you were made for me. Made to my exact specifications. If you have any semblance of a brain in your head, it’s only because I told the puppetmaster’s apprentice to put it there. I’ve half a mind to string you both back up inside with the others. Like it or not, Ulrika, I own you.” He grabs her roughly by the shoulder and pulls her to him. “Now, cleric, begin,” he growls impatiently.
The cleric licks his lips nervously and begins to shuffle through the pages of his leather-bound book of prayers. I wait for just the right moment, intending to surprise Laszlo with my splinter—but the princess beats me to it.
CHAPTER 29
AS SOON AS VINCENZO BEGINS MUMBLING THE HOMILY, Prima throws off Laszlo’s grip and uses a well-heeled wedding slipper to kick the book from the cleric’s hands and shove the bewildered old man out of the way. Quicker than he can blink, Laszlo is her prisoner. Her arm wraps unflinchingly around his neck, pressing his own knife against his throat. She is nearly as tall as he, and, it appears, outranks him in strength.
“My name, you gutless man-creature,” she says evenly into his ear, not even breathing hard, “is not for you to choose. I already have a name.”
“Let me guess,” he says, his windpipe bobbing under the blade. “Is it Prim or Prissy or Pretentious? It’s clearly not Prudence,” he spits, followed by a hollow cough that seizes his chest in its own spell.
“My name,” she says, twisting his collar tighter like a noose, “is Prima. I am the first of my kind, the firstborn of my maker’s blood.”
She heard me. She knows her name.
“And you, one born the common way, couldn’t possibly understand.” Every time she speaks aloud, her voice grows in strength and eloquence. Pride breaks open in my chest.
I am somewhat useless now, brandishing my splinter in Laszlo’s face, but I don’t let that stop me. “You’re going to let us go now, my lord,” I say, dripping with sarcasm. “Neither of us belongs to you and we never will. One cannot buy or collect the things you need most: love and companionship, for starters. But don’t worry, you shan’t be left alone. You can be grateful we let you keep your head intact, and your precious collection for company. I would say you have the cleric as well, except he seems to have fled and left you in the capable hands of your bride,” I say, noting the empty place remaining where Vincenzo scrabbled
