Burl takes off at a clip through the darkened streets. Just as Wolfspire Hall begins to shrink behind us, the deafening sound of an explosion engulfs the ringing bells and rocks the cobblestones beneath us. Clinging to each other, we look back to see the glass-domed conservatory roof completely collapsing. The roof pops like a glass bubble, leaving nothing behind but air and smoke. The acrid smell of burning wood and charred brick rides the wind ahead of us. Nan tries to calm Burl, who is pulling hard at the reins, following his instincts to flee the noise. She stops the wagon, looking back at the carnage and then to me and Prima.
“Let’s keep going,” I command.
“Good, I was just going to suggest that,” she says.
But a few moments later, in front of the rathaus, I spy a light on in the clock tower and beg her to slow the horse. Though the glockenspiel has finished its refrain, the great clock above is keeping accurate time again.
“Wait for me,” I say, leaping from the wagon before the wheels even grind to a halt. “There’s something I need in the tower.”
CHAPTER 32
I FIND BRAN JUST WHERE I THOUGHT I MIGHT; HIGH UP ON the scaffolding, boxing up Emmitt’s tools and watching the smoke spew from Wolfspire Hall. As soon as he hears my footsteps, he quickly drops down the ladder, his eyes hungrily searching my face. I try to ignore the carousel behind him, and the memories that will forever haunt this clock tower.
“Are you all right, Piro?” I can tell he wants to pull me to him, but he hesitates, unsure if I’ll allow it. “Were you hurt? Did he do anything to hurt you?”
“No. I mean, yes, I’m all right. You?”
He’s filthy, and that peculiar smell that followed my father home from the Keep lingers on him. But he is Bran, and he is here, safe and real.
“I’m so sorry, Piro. My carelessness could have cost you everything!” he says, looking over his shoulder to the fire and smoke on the hill. “I could have lost you in there! I feel like a fool, taken away to the Keep and unable to help you. I had no idea, Piro—what it was like in there …” His voice breaks. “I would have come straight to get you myself, but Nan overruled me. She didn’t trust my strength after being in that horrible place. So I came here, to fit the last piece in, for Emmitt.”
I take a small step toward him, drawn as ever to his warmth, which even Wolfspire Keep could not extinguish.
“I’m glad. I think he would be proud to hear the old bells roar to life again. The Margrave, however, was not.”
Bran smiles a wry, sad smile.
“But then,” I continue, “you and I well know something the Margrave never learned; a maker will always prevail.”
“Always,” Bran agrees, reaching tentatively for my hand. I happily give it to him.
When Bran touches me, there is none of that probing measurement there once was with Laszlo. A sameness flows between us now, a current I could get lost in. In his eyes, I’m not a thing made of parts and pieces, an apparatus cobbled together to fit his purposes; I’m much more than that. I am loved. Perhaps that’s one of the ways we each find ourselves becoming more human, by that strange magic of being seen all at once for the whole marvelous and terrible creatures we are and not just the odd scraps of our faults and frailties.
The Maker’s Guild and the Tavians who fled to escape the spreading fire sleep in the thick of the wood that night, among the old giants. There are released prisoners from the Keep who are much rejoiced over, mingling with housewives and butchers and shopkeepers. Whatever food was liberated from Wolfspire’s cellars is gladly shared among them all. Fires dot the forest floor, keeping everyone warm against the cutting night air. Though most were afraid of the wood’s nooks and dark hollows, they find safety and shelter in its shadows now.
But sleep refuses me. I leave our dwindling fire, around which the others dream soundly—Nan and the Sorens and Fonso and Anke on one side, Tiffin and Mort on the other, with Bran keeping an eye on the cleric and Prima in the wagon. Quietly, I wrap my cloak around my shoulders and venture into the black curtain of trees.
The others took to Prima without too many questions; I even caught Tiffin staring at her like a royal dunce more than once. She moved among us serenely, not saying much, but her every movement was deliberate, every flash of feeling across her face aristocratic and bold.
When it came time to introduce her, I completely froze, only to be saved by Bran, who made her acquaintance on the drive to the wood. Like any good tailor, he spun a story for us all.
“Makers, meet Prima von Eidle, daughter of a distant noble of Elinbruk. Milady was wed to the Margrave just after midnight tonight, so she’s had a bit of a shock, you could say, what with being very suddenly a widow and finding herself our new Margravina to boot. Tiffin, get her a blanket. Mort, make room by the fire. Mother, would you heat her a bowl of stew? No doubt our lady is quite hungry after her trials.”
Vincenzo confirmed Bran’s story by spouting a long and very sensationalized tale of Prima’s bravery in the midst of the fantastical events that occurred in the conservatory. The little ones listened in awe from their sleeping pallets, but the elders were rightfully skeptical of the account of the duke’s marionettes come to life, especially as the cleric’s yarn grew ever more outlandish each time he brought his cup of ale to his lips. I didn’t mind. His tales would spread Prima’s story far and wide, saving us the trouble.
Restless, prowling among the trees away from
