Page 6 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
“Tell us about it.” I crank the lever attached to the Nutcracker’s lower jaw, and he cracks through another shell with ease. As I release the lever, I dart my hand in to catch the crushed shell, but in my haste I drop the Nutcracker. He tumbles to the floor, knocking against the base on which the dollhouse sits.
Something in the way the doll lies there, his legs crooked and his jointed arms flung outward—it looks so human and helpless.
“I’m sorry.” I bite back a curse, retrieving the Nutcracker, locking his legs straight again, and setting him back on the doorstep.
“No harm done,” Drosselmeyer assures me. He and Clara are already turning away, moving on to examine one of his machines, which he claims can wash dishes all on its own.
But when I cast one final glance at the Nutcracker, I notice that a sliver of wood has split off one of his arms.
Swearing inwardly, I crouch down and search the shadowed tile around the base of the dollhouse. There it is—a splinter about half the length of my littlest finger.
Of course I would break something on our first night here. I’m always breaking one thing or another. Papa used to call it giddy carelessness. I try to be careful, but sometimes my limbs end up in different places than I expect them to. Sometimes my arms swing wider or my legs step farther than I anticipate. I’m naturally clumsy, I suppose.
I hate that I ruined Drosselmeyer’s newest piece of craftsmanship on my first night in his house. Perhaps, if I can fix it well enough, he’ll never notice what happened.
On a nearby wheeled cart there are a few tools—among them a small tub of paste. But I don’t have time to glue the bit of wood back into place now. Maybe I can do it tonight, when I plan to be out and about, exploring.
I slip the bit of wood into my pocket and rejoin the others.
When I’m finally back in my room, I take turns with Clara in the bathroom and then crawl into bed, yawning and exclaiming about how tired I am. She seems surprised that I don’t want to sit up and talk about our new home. I do, eventually, but that can wait. Right now all I can think about is repairing the Nutcracker and then going to the third floor.
Back home, the neighbors called me flighty. Distractable. Prone to flit from one point of interest to the next. All that is true, but sometimes I fixate on a thing, and I simply cannot think of anything else until I’ve done it.
I wait until I’m sure everyone is asleep. Then I wrap a soft robe around myself and transfer the Nutcracker’s sliver of wood from the pocket of my dress to the pocket of my robe. I ease my bedroom door open and tiptoe out.
I should have taken a candle. The gaslamps are all turned down, and the hall is nearly pitch black. Somehow I manage to feel my way forward until my foot, probing ahead, encounters empty air. The staircase.
Step by step I move down it. The uncurtained foyer windows admit some moonlight, so I’m able to locate a candle and matches on a side table near the parlor doors. As I shake out the match after lighting the wick, I notice chains drawn across the front doors, secured with heavy locks. There are iron locks on the windows too. Strange. But the house is filled with one-of-a-kind inventions—I suppose Drosselmeyer must take precautions against thieves.
Candle in hand, my nightgown whispering against the carpet, I glide down the long hallway to the back of the house. The darkly paneled walls reflect a hazy golden blur as the candle flame passes. I trail my free hand along the panels, counting them idly, until my hand brushes over something that isn’t a wall panel.
I turn—
And there’s a face leering at me.
Shock roars through my body, and I yelp, leaping back.
When nothing happens, I lean forward cautiously, holding out the candle.
It’s one of Drosselmeyer’s automatons, standing motionless in an alcove, grinning.
“You’re fucking creepy, you know that?” I whisper to it. “But I suppose it’s not your fault.”
The thing doesn’t move. Not a twitch.
“Right. Carry on.” I give it a two-fingered salute and continue down the corridor.
Once I reach the showroom, I flip the lever for the gaslight and struggle with the doors. They’re heavy, but with a defiant shove, I manage to push one door partway open and squeeze through the aperture. I’m thicker-bodied than my sister, mostly because she forgets to eat when she’s painting. In fact, when she’s deep in a creative spell, she usually lives off whatever sweets we happen to have around—cookies, sugarplums, toffee, peppermint sticks. Not that Papa ever permitted many of those, either, but I managed to smuggle them in thanks to our obliging young postman. If there’s one thing my sister and I share, it’s a love of sweets.
I can’t stay in the showroom long, not with the whole place lit up to high heaven. I have no idea if Drosselmeyer’s bedroom windows face this way; it’s more likely they’d face the front of the house. But on the off chance he might notice his showroom shining through the night like an earthbound star, I’d better hurry.
After unsealing the tub of paste on the work cart, I reach into my pocket to get the splinter, only to slice my finger on the sharp edge.
“Ow, damn it!” I inspect the damage to my fingertip. A small cut, but it seems eager to bleed everywhere and make my night more difficult. Lovely.
More swears spill from my lips as I daub paste onto the sliver of wood. The pale glue turns pink with my blood, but it should work just as well.
I pick up the Nutcracker and settle the splinter into the crevice along his arm. I press it tight for a few seconds, waiting for the glue to set. Blood from my finger is getting on his shoulder, too. I’ll have to wipe that off before I leave.
