Page 7 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
Suddenly the Nutcracker vibrates in my hands. I nearly drop him. “Shit,” I hiss. “What the hell?”
My naughty tongue is courtesy of Clara’s math tutor. He taught me all kinds of words I could say while I came on his dick. I was sorry to see him go when his sessions with my sister came to an end. He had very fine equipment.
The Nutcracker remains inert, so I decide I imagined the vibration. Firmly I press on the splinter again. Just a moment more, and then I can leave this place and go up to the third floor.
A shudder runs through the Nutcracker, energy traveling from him into my hands—or is it the other way around?
I stare at him, at the pink circles on his cheeks, the sharp angles of his eyebrows, the crisp line of his jutting jaw, and the faint pattern of the wood grain, visible through the glossy paint on his face.
According to Drosselmeyer, he creates most of his puppets with specific movements and tasks. Maybe this one moves, too, and he didn’t tell us about it.
Again the doll spasms in my hands—and I could swear he grows a fraction larger.
“Something is very wrong with you,” I whisper. “I think I’m done fixing you now. You can go back to guarding the dollhouse.”
I reach out to put him back on the doorstep, but his jointed body bucks, extends, explodes to five, six—no, ten times his size—he’s out of my hands, poised stiffly on one knee on the tiled floor, while ripples of green light roll over his wooden body. I recoil as he shudders, flares brighter for a moment, and then goes still.
He looks different. Still stiff and jointed like a puppet, but life-size now, and a bit less—wooden. And the nut-cracking lever on his back has disappeared.
He’s staring down at the floor, his black hat firmly in place, one fist planted on the tile.
Then his head jerks up, and he’s staring at me.
He’s alive.
Incomprehensibly, undeniably alive.
His red mouth works as if it’s difficult for him to move it, and his cheeks look stiff as boards. The corners of his jaw unhinge a bit as he opens his mouth. I shudder at the sight.
“Mortal girl,” he croaks. “You will assist me.”
“Excuse me—that’s mortalwomanto you,” I say, breathless.
“Help me up.”
Something in his manner irritates me. Besides which, he’s a damn puppet come to life, and I’m honestly reluctant to touch him.
Maybe I’m dreaming. I slap my own cheek hard to be sure. It stings, so I must be awake.
The Nutcracker stares at me. “What is that? Some type of human greeting?”
“Yes, that’s a human greeting.” Sarcasm feels good. It steadies me. “Why do you keep saying ‘mortal’ and ‘human’ that way? What are you?”
He places jointed fingers against the base of the dollhouse, rising with several creaks and grunts of effort. “I was—I am—a prince of Faerie.”
I stare. “Indeed. And I am the Queen of this land.”
“Really?” He looks me up and down doubtfully. “You don’t look it. I thought you were simply a guest of that horrible hunter.”
“Hunter?”
“The man who brought you in here to stare at me—at us. Drosselmeyer.”
Curious as I am about the mysteries underlying his words, we can’t discuss them here, with the lights blazing.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
He crooks one of his legs and slides it forward awkwardly. When he tries to take another step, he wobbles and almost crashes to the floor. I catch him, nearly screaming at the strange feel of his body. It’s like—living wood. Slightly pliant, like a sapling, but with a polished, unyielding texture.
