Laszlo remains frozen beneath the princess’s knife, hating us both with a vicious smile.
“No. It’s you who don’t understand, my wooden darlings. What can you possibly know, one of you an ignorant maker, and the other only alive for five minutes? I have given my life to the study of puppets, of dark animation—mostly the conjurer’s kind. If I can’t have the bride I wish, then at the very least I will have a show.”
He chants an incantation in a language that sounds like it’s from another time. I don’t have to understand it to know it means something ruinous.
“Exsurgencia, exitarneum. Exsurgencia, exitarneum … leben-surge.” His eyes gleam with expectation as his voice builds. Prima instinctively tightens her hold on him.
A flash of movement among the trees catches my eye. The marionettes. The ones the Margrave brought out to watch … every marionette in the courtyard and in the gallery begins to quiver. The moonlight hangs over the slow ballet beginning in the conservatory like a curtain. Laszlo continues to spew his spell and though Prima hurriedly clasps a hand over his mouth, it’s too late. His words have taken hold.
The magic unfolds as a series of sharp twitches, bolts of lightning to the puppets’ strings. The moon only knows what secrets Laszlo uncovered in his late nights of research in the library; all I know is that in the last few weeks, when he wasn’t in the gallery with me he was there, studying. My blood turns to ice.
The marionettes gain vitality with every passing second. Soon they rip free from their strings, tearing away with hands and paws at branches and wire, away from the pegs that brace them, away from anything holding them back. One by one, they drop to the ground or gambol down the limbs of the trees to encircle us.
They are all here: the wolf-faced man, the clown and witches and wood nymph, even those crafted by my father, Lady Cosima included, all under Laszlo’s spell. Among their number are masked and jeering faces, knights and soldiers, wizards and plain stick men whose ancient, bare faces have only their arms and legs to commend them to a human form. The emptiness of their faces fills me with fear.
They perch on the princess’s wooden pyre, crouch among the trees and roost on the edge of the fountain at the center of the conservatory. There are dragons and birds, beasts and monsters. None of them breathe, none of them speak or question. They just wait. Wait for the next tweak of their strings.
Laszlo is ecstatic at his accomplishment; his laughter bubbles out high-pitched and delighted. Prima hasn’t abandoned the knife at his throat, but the fear in her eyes matches my own. Together we are strong, but there are only two of us against dozens of mindless marionettes, each ready to spring into action at Laszlo’s words. More trickle in from the gallery walls every second. When the saboteur steps from the shadows to join them and cocks her head, listening for her next command, my heart sinks. I saw how she captured Bran and handled him as if he weighed no more than a feather.
The cleric chooses this moment to return with two guards, and the three men rush into the conservatory, only to quickly realize the Margrave’s call for help has been answered in the most absurd and astonishing way.
“My lord?” Vincenzo squeaks, clinging to the arm of the nearest guard for fortitude. “I have brought … help.”
The Margrave bites down hard on Prima’s fingers, triggering release of his mouth.
“Captismarenach! Captismarenach!” he shouts.
The puppets act without question. They surround Prima and me, pulling her from Laszlo. I begin kicking them as fast as I can, but they swarm me like ants. No sooner is one flung aside than another takes its place. Prima heaves them into the trees. The unmistakable smash of broken glass abounds as the conservatory windows are severely battered from her efforts. I cannot hear the voices of any of the marionettes or trees in the thrall of the battle; the sounds of struggle are too chaotic.
While I slash wildly at the oncoming horde with my splinter-dagger, Prima rips the head off a large dragon puppet, swinging the broad tail-end around to knock others away. But the Margrave’s marionettes are just too numerous; they climb her elegantly moving body and soon, Prima is restrained under their weight. Before I can blink, the saboteur, who was lingering at the edges, has seized me, swiftly bolting my arms to my sides. She lifts me easily off the ground and holds me in front of her, never flinching while I kick and twist.
“You’re a little late, cleric,” says Laszlo, rubbing his throat and glowering at the man. “I clearly don’t need your help to subdue my rebellious bride. Now get over here and perform your duty.”
The Margrave’s own disfigured boy-puppet has capered up into his arms like a puppy, where it stares balefully at Prima. Vincenzo slinks closer to Laszlo, stepping delicately over and around the marionettes covering the ground like a swarm of locusts. He and the guards can’t quite believe their eyes; the full depths of the new Margrave’s eccentricities are illuminated like never before. This is magic like no one living has seen. Wooden soldiers walking among us was just a foretaste. The guards back away, slinking off to wait in the hall.
My arms ache where the saboteur’s claw-like hands clench with steadfast pressure. It hurts worse, though, to have looked into her empty eyes and realize that my own creation has betrayed me, that I have unleashed upon the world a figurine that can destroy and kill. I strain to hear her voice, to gain some reassurance in our shared connection, but I sense nothing; she is an empty vault. She must be completely consumed by Laszlo’s spell.
In the ghostly glow of the blue moon, we appear to be the
