Page 27

So not a lie. Because really, there hadn’t been time in the end.

So my nose stayed put.

Mother frowned at my answer, then swiveled back toward the table. Glancing at the mallet’s ash handle, I said, “Mother, put that down.”

“But the trees—”

“The trees can’t hurt anyone.”

“They’re angry with me. I’ve stolen from them.”

“No one is angry with you.” I crossed over and cupped her cheeks. “We’ll fix this. Everything will be fine.”

That bumped the fear from my mother’s gaze, the veil lifting from her eyes, shifting back to clarity. Back to normal.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay,” I said.

Okay. I hated cleaning. Typically, I got one of my bootlickers to skip over here and do it, promising a special treat in return: my approval.

Not that I’d want my followers to see this, much less to bug me right now. I had decisions to make, damage-control to do, offensive tactics to plan in case the Royal authorities came knocking. I had a fairytale acorn to decipher for my mother’s sake.

She’d taken no prisoners, on the verge of demolishing the lot of her work. We collected the mess, piling it onto the workbench, then swept up. I smelled the lingering scent of freshly-baked pumpernickel bread from the kitchen downstairs.

As I shuffled about, a rhythmic crack broke the silence. Mother stopped pushing the broom around and glanced at me. “Are you out of alignment?”

I scoffed, plucking a rag from the cupboard. “I don’t get out of alignment.”

“One of your bolts needs replacement, then.”

“Mother, no.”

“Yes. I’ve been changing your pins for eighteen years.”

How humiliating. Waving off my protests, Mother grabbed the necessary tools and knelt before me, fixing the knob of my knee.

I felt something chip at my throat while I sat there like a four-year-old, watching her hands. Those older fingers, aged sixty years, moved gently. Sanely.

There’d be another episode. Rants about unreal stuff.

The conspiracy she’d built in her mind had to do with the trees. She believed they possessed voices and a grudge. Autumn’s popular carpenter had pissed them off by using so much of their bark for her trade—for her own gain. Out of guilt, or seeking forgiveness, Mother had lately begun to smash her work.

The change had started three months ago, out of nowhere. It crept up on us like a stalker. For some divine reason, the almighty Seasons had warped part of my mother’s mind. A part that hadn’t returned.

That’s why Mother hadn’t attended the final visit to the castle. Before then, she’d been fine. But prior to her last appointment, during that final stage of production, she had officially changed, with no signs of recovery.

She’d been sworn to secrecy about the acorn commission. But living under the same roof, she hadn’t been able to hide it from me. I’d known from the beginning.

At the peak of her illness, my nut heart had contracted. An idea took shape.

Because of her state, I’d reasoned that Mother would make a bad impression, and she feared the outdoor trees anyway. So I’d suggested that I deliver the case myself. She agreed, and I went to the castle on her behalf—with a plan fixed in my head.

Thankfully Mother hadn’t suffered an episode and destroyed the commission.

During the transfer, when I’d left my splinter trail, the Queen had met me in the vault. I’d worn my cape, the hood flopping over my head, and a pair of gloves. When she requested that I show myself, I made the excuse that I had a skin defect. Sort of true, depending on whom you asked.

I’d kept my head down, making it seem like a source of shame. Being a compassionate ruler, the Queen had reluctantly accepted that. Besides, she knew and trusted Mother, who’d sent word ahead that her “girl”—whatever that meant—would bring the display case.