With his big shoulders hunched to his ears, Papa concentrates on refining the chest of the soldier so that one of Tailor Soren’s uniforms will fit snugly as a second skin. The Margrave’s orders were very specific: the marionettes are to be as tall as a man, each outfitted with a uniform the tailor would supply. And the faces must be unique, no two alike. I’ve spent the last year toiling at Papa’s side on untold numbers of eyebrows, noses and lips, until my fingertips were stained and calloused. We’ve delivered dozens of the soldiers to the Margrave’s estate and just received an order for more.
I sit down on an empty stool and poke at an abandoned, half-eaten apple. If I didn’t leave him bits of food scattered about, Papa would forget to eat; he’s been so focused on meeting the Margrave’s absurd deadlines.
“Papa?”
“Yes, Poppet?”
“Why does the Margrave really want the soldiers? Just when I think we’re done, a new order arrives.”
My father halts the sanding block in his hands, nudging his spectacles up with a dirty shirtsleeve. I see the dazed look of a man getting far too little sleep.
“I don’t know, Piro. I’ve pondered on it much myself. The young duke is still an avid collector of marionettes, so the steward says. He must grow restless, cooped up there as he’s always been. Perhaps they are his only source of amusement. I’m sure the Margrave placates the lad any way that he can.
“Of course, it’s reckoned by some that the Margrave might prefer to name our Emmitt as heir, though I doubt we’ll ever see that come to pass. I can’t imagine the young duke would ever take kindly to his father’s bastard assuming his rightful seat. Though we all know who would make the better Margrave.” He muffles the last bit under his breath and resumes sanding.
I am no stranger to the history of the Margrave’s two sons. Emmitt Schulze, the clockmaker, is a good friend and long-standing member of the Maker’s Guild, and the closest I’ve come to having a brother. He and his mother, Anke, have spent many an hour at our hearth.
Years before the birth of the young duke in Wolfspire Hall, the Margrave forced a dalliance with Anke, a pretty widow who’d inherited the clock shop from her late husband. Though he never officially declared his first son, the Margrave never concealed Emmitt’s existence—much to the ire of his fragile Margravina back at home.
“Whatever the reason for these soldiers, Poppet, it’s not our concern. We must be grateful for the work, for it’s buying you a new pair of boots and a dress, and me a much-needed saw blade. And then I intend to set some money aside for you. Seems like we never get caught up enough to put anything aside for tomorrow. And,” he pauses to blow a fresh pile of dust from the soldier’s body, “speaking of tomorrow, we must go gather more wood.”
I want to let my father sink back into his work, but I worry what will become of us after the Margrave’s commissions. I can’t keep it in, can’t help but give voice to the fear that’s been trickling into my mind for weeks.
“Do you think, Papa, that the Margrave or the duke somehow knows? About me?”
Papa jolts, dropping the sanding block on the soldier’s stomach. On his face, buried beneath the exhaustion and determination, I see something I have been desperately trying not to see these past months: denial laced with fear.
“Surely not, Piro.” He lowers his voice to a terse whisper. “No one else in all of Tavia knows about the blue moon’s magic except me and you. And you have told no one?”
“Never!”
“Then, it’s impossible,” he says resolutely, returning to the soldier.
“But … haven’t you wondered, Papa, about the timing of it all?”
Until recently, I’d assumed the Margrave was hardly aware we existed. He’d kept to himself for years, rarely entering village life to do more than wave a gloved hand in the square at yearly proclamations or parade the duke around in a carriage. There was little contact with the Maker’s Guild and the common folk, beyond the odd bit of tailoring and tinkering or the occasional request of a puppet for his son.
“It’s been nearly seven years since the last blue moon. Do you think—”
“Impossible.” My father growls low, ending any hope of further conversation. “Speak of it no more. You know better, Piro! Now, fetch me that spool of wire, I must attach these arms.”
Pressing my lips into a tight line, I hunt for the spool and find it tipped against an empty jar of paint. I hand it over without speaking. Papa can be brusque, but he’s never brushed me off like this before. This is new. Along with the tremors in his hands and the drooping bend of his back. Each soldier built seems to sap a little more of his strength.
I decide I will try his method: push down my reservations by working harder. All will be well, if we can just finish these orders on time. I sit on my worn stool with my small back against his mountainous one and dip a brush into some black lacquer. Though I’m weary of soldiers, it’s always a thrill to watch wooden eyes open for the first time, the fine fringe of eyelashes growing under my brush.
When I begin to paint the lips, using the Margrave’s red, the soldier interrupts my concentration. Like the trees, marionette voices drift from their wooden cores to my ears, speaking in their faint echoes.
“We know who you are,” he mutters darkly. “Sister. Carved of the same vein and forged in secret. We remember.”
A thick drop of red escapes my brush and smudges against the corner of the soldier’s mouth, pasting him with a leering grin. Hurriedly, I grab a rag and wipe it away. But the damage is done, the stain too lurid for the rag to erase. I glare at the head, not yet attached to its body. Picking up my own sanding block, I take pleasure in roughly grinding the paint away. In my haste, the lips are gouged, leaving this soldier scarred.
No matter. After all, the Margrave requested that the soldiers appear real. None of us escape becoming real without a few scars.
CHAPTER 3
“PIROUETTE! WAIT UP!” AN EAGER VOICE RISES ABOVE the din of wagon wheels on the cobblestones.
Just near home, Bran catches up to me. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. His face can scarcely be seen, buried beneath a mountainous armload of fabric. He grins at me sideways from behind the rich-hued bolts piled in his arms.
“I see it was another good day for the theatrical arts,” he says, referencing the pots of fresh paint swinging in my arms after another market day.
“I don’t think you can see anything of the sort, mostly because I don’t see how you can see anything at all.” I snort, watching as Bran’s shins meet an apple seller’s crate. He stumbles but catches himself, managing to keep hold of the bundle in his arms. As the tailor’s son and chief delivery boy of The Golden Needle, Bran Soren could almost navigate the village sight unseen. Almost.
“You coming to the next Guild meeting?”
I nod as we stop below a sign with CURIO etched in winding black script.
“Planning on it.”
Bran’s grin crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Save you a seat?”
“Same as always.”
“Always.” He winks conspiratorially and steps backwards into The Golden Needle without looking, the door swinging open to the tinkle of bells and a happy shriek from one of his younger sisters.