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 all my penny francs, Miss Pirouette,” the-boy-who-should-be-Dieter says breathlessly.
“He’s saved them all. For weeks and weeks. We need some more wooden men, for our battalion,” adds Gustav.
“We’re preparing for a great battle,” Dieter says seriously, his blond sheaf of hair bobbing in his eyes.
“Are you?” I reply. “That sounds quite dangerous. And who are we fighting this time?”
“Dragons, Miss Pirouette,” Gustav—at least I think it’s Gustav—pipes up. “There are loads of them here in Tavia. They’ve escaped from the high mountains in Brylov, didn’t you know? And if we aren’t careful to watch for them, Father says we’ll all be burned to a crisp.”
“A crisp!” his brother adds knowingly.
“Indeed. Well, I know the puppetmaster would love nothing more than to help you fight off those pesky dragons, but since he’s resting at the moment, will those do?”
I point to the toy soldiers on a low shelf, each with a tiny face and cap and weapon to bear.
“Now, soldiers can be useful in battle, but don’t forget, so can a dragon!” I whirl around with a roar, having freed a black dragon marionette from its hooks. I dangle it menacingly over the boys’ heads.
They erupt in shrieks and giggles as I make a tiny spray of wooden flames spew forth from the dragon’s mouth through a lever my father carved in the beast’s neck. While the boys busy themselves on the floor deciding which soldiers their few precious coins will secure, I return the dragon to its hooks and continue dusting. The bells jingle again. It promises to be a busy day.
“One moment!” I call, my back to the door, righting a chess piece from where it had been knocked over.
A male throat clears impatiently behind me. The rudeness sets my cheeks to steaming.
“Yes, I said just a moment—”
I whirl around to see the Margrave’s steward, the one who lingered near my wagon on market day, a tall, horse-faced man called Baldrik. He has to hunch to fit through our door. He’s been to Curio several times now, but always deals with my father. In fact, since the day he arrived in his carriage to bestow his first order of soldiers upon our humble shop, we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the Margrave himself.
“What can I do for you, sir?” I ask stiffly, rubbing at my apron with the duster, dispensing dust from the shelves all over myself.
“Here to check accounts,” he says briskly. “Margrave von Eidle is eager to complete his latest order, and if our accounts are correct, we are still short eight soldiers.” He sniffs, his square jaw and lips grinding like a bull chewing its cud. “Our accounts are always correct.”
The man always speaks as if he were the mouthpiece of the Margrave himself, joined to the noble household by some holy union. It’s always “we need this” and “we think that. “And here he is again, checking up on us, as if we are making mud pies instead of constructing complex pieces of art. I hide my distaste for Baldrik and his master’s errand by plastering a smile on my face. The twins eye him suspiciously from the corner.
“Certainly,” I say pleasantly, forcing myself to walk calmly to the ledger. Ceremoniously, I heave the curling, leather-bound book on the counter and flip it open to a page marked by a long strip of ribbon so worn it’s nearly transparent. I trace my finger down the entries, hunting the one he’s asking about. It’s the last one on the ledger, one of the only new orders we’ve listed in weeks.
“Yes, you’ll see right here we have eight soldiers left to complete, as you mentioned, in this most recent order of a dozen. But we’ll surely have them finished by Margrave von Eidle’s deadline, which isn’t for another two weeks.”
Baldrik shifts around heavily on his feet, which wobble as if they are unaccustomed to supporting such an immense, ungainly apparatus. He looks down at me with scorn.
“We’d like to speak to the puppetmaster himself, girl. Make sure he is aware that this order must take precedence over any other work. The Margrave won’t brook any delays.”
“He’s not down in the workshop at the moment, but I can assure you he has been laboring day and night to complete the Margrave’s order.”
The twins now stand behind the large man, squabbling about which one of them should get to hold the prized fistful of soldiers.
Baldrik huffs impatiently, irritated by me and the two small boys. “Call him at once, we prefer to speak with the master himself, not his dusting wench.”
Blood rises to my face at his insult, the sensation of roots drawing up water.
“I am the puppetmaster’s apprentice,” I say, unable to hide the edge that slides into my voice. “And if I may repeat myself, he is unavailable. But as his apprentice, let me assure you, we will complete this order, just as we have all the others the Margrave has so generously given us.”
Baldrik looks past me, through the open curtain behind the counter to the workshop beyond.
“We don’t want your assurances, girl, we want to hear from the puppetmaster himself. Call him out.”
“He’s not in the workshop,” I repeat flatly, not wanting to show any weakness by admitting that my father is still upstairs in bed. It galls me to think of waking him, as though he were a servant at this horrid man’s beck and call.
Baldrik places a pair of gloved hands the size of garden rakes onto the counter.
“Where is he?”
“Indisposed. But, I assure you, the Margrave’s order—”
“Miss Pirouette? We’re all done!” Gustav announces loudly, trying to be heard over the demands of the steward.
“Will be carried out to the letter—every last wooden one of them—and not a day late,” Balkdrik barks.
“Yes, sir. We just finished another soldier last night,” I reply with forced optimism.
A small fist appears at the edge of the counter and a set of questionably clean hands pushes six soldiers up to the ledger. Baldrik looks at Dieter like he’s ready to swat the small boy away like a fly. Then he leans even farther over the counter, scrutinizing my face closely. The man smells of pipe smoke and something sour beneath. “Gephardt Leiter is always in his workshop this time of day. He is a man of regular habits.”
“Boys, leave your pennies on the counter. You’re all set.” I wink at them and they scamper out the door, leaving a pile of warm penny francs behind, new soldiers shoved into bulging pockets. I feel slightly less brave without them here, left to face this particular dragon alone.
“If your master isn’t capable of completing this order, other measures must be taken. He knows the consequences. The Margrave has been exceedingly generous with him and this little hovel of a workshop. If he is not able to proceed as planned—well, we hate to think of what will become of him. And,” he says, punctuating the threat with a long, tapered finger upon the ledger, “of you …”