“Pirouette, I …”
I watch him search for what comes next, very aware of his hand holding mine. I marvel that, in the two years since we first opened this cupboard, Bran has somehow become my dearest friend. I can’t imagine my days without his quick and easy smile, without noticing the way his hair curls up at his collar when his mother gets too busy to give him a haircut, and the way it looks endearingly ragged when one of his sisters does it for him. Bit by bit, like a scrap of sandpaper wearing away a rough edge, Bran has worn down my defenses, all the stiffness, shyness and quietude of my earlier years. By all accounts, he knows me best, at least, as much as you can know someone without truly knowing their past.
Papa long ago instilled in me the consequences of revealing my origin to anyone else; it would only endanger them as well as me. Of course, Bran’s heard the yarn my father told when, out of the blue, a quiet slip of a girl appeared at his side: my mother died in childbirth and I was sent away to be raised by my grandmother until I was old enough to join him in his shop. Gephardt repeated the fable so many times and with such confidence that my newly formed ears absorbed the words like truth, and I repeated it as my own. I’ve always paid a price for it. Whether it’s a misfiring of the magic that made me or a natural effect of my wooden origins, I’ve learned that anytime I tell a lie, there are consequences. Painful consequences.
“Pirouette.” Bran nudges me. “You … you know that you can trust me, right? That I care about you, more than I have the words to say.”
In spite of his sweetness, all I can think is that if Bran really knew, knew that something about me is both human and other, he would be afraid.
Afraid for me.
Afraid of me.
I can’t bear that.
Bran sighs again, circling the back of my hand with his thumb. My breath catches in my throat.
“Just don’t forget that I’m here. Wooden soldiers or not. Margrave or not. Someday, I’ll have enough to strike out on my own, and you and Gephardt will never need worry about money. I’ll help, I’ll—”
“Bran.”
“We could be—”
“Bran.” I cut him off, half-delighted and half-terrified of what he might say next.
More than anything, I want a future with Bran, a chance to be loved the way the milliner loves the milkmaid, with a heart that feels full to the brim of happiness. But it always seems happiness only ever hovers near, a wisp of flame ready to vanish with my next breath. Bran deserves a girl who is fully human, not one whose very existence could condemn him to the Keep.
He looks at me expectantly through the shelves, waiting.
“This is just work,” I reassure him. “It’s not forever. Surely the Margrave and the duke will run out of room to hold all their toys. Soon our days will return to normal.”
“Maybe, Piro,” he leans in, gripping my hand, “but normal or not, I want more than this for you.”
I dare to read from the hungry look in his eyes that he wants more from me, too. My heart swells with something dangerous and thrilling.
“Bran?” I ask, a smile on my lips, offering him the only thing I can right now: the comforting words that have closed every clandestine meeting between our cupboard since we were sixteen. “See you tomorrow. Same as always?”
“Always,” he repeats softly, eyes shining in the candlelight.
With regret, he releases my hand and waits for me to be the first to close the cupboard door. I shut it slowly, feeling the same sense of loss I always do when the knob locks into place. Placing my hand over the door, I leave it to rest, foolishly hoping to feel Bran’s pulse from the other side.
My heart wants Bran Soren. I can’t deny it. But the danger of loving someone is that the closer you get, the more exposed you become. And just like a single lie will work itself out through my skin, I fear the truth will do the same, splintering apart anything good we might have. Far sharper than any lie, I’ve learned the truth has a way of coming out. Always.
CHAPTER 4
I BEGIN MY USUAL MORNING DUTIES BY TYING ON MY apron, unlatching the front door and dusting the shelves. Papa hasn’t come downstairs yet, he must still be asleep. I’m glad. I don’t like the feverish look in his eyes, the sweat I’ve seen beading his brow.
I linger on the marionettes today with duster in hand, adjusting a crooked arm here, draping a tangled string more loosely there. Each one is so unique, so lovely, it almost pains me to look at them.
“We are not so different, you and I,” one of my wise-bearded wizards advises when I tug his handle to make him sit up straight. The tip of his pointed hat knocks the shelf above. “You have strings, too,” he mumbles. “Strings you cannot see, but that move you all the same.”
Thankfully, the wizard’s philosophizing is interrupted by raucous feet bursting through the door to the ring of doorbells. I turn to see the candlemaker’s twins: both boys, blond, impish and hardly able to contain themselves. They are regular visitors, but even so, I can only tell them apart on a good day. Their mother dresses them in different colored caps—Dieter in red and Gustav in green—but whether they keep to their correct color depends on their mood.
“Is the puppetmaster here? I’ve saved
