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Adair cocked his snowy-white head at her and released another hoot before hopping to a lower limb.
As always, Eirah lifted her arm and motioned at it. “Come on, it’s the same as resting on a branch, only softer.”
The owl watched her silently, his eyes glowing a brilliant orange. He inched nearer, and she took another step toward him—the closest they had ever been to one another—when a high-pitched squeak radiated in the distance.
The owl jerked up his head and darted off into the distance to snatch up his nightly meal. “Perhaps tomorrow we’ll meet again.” She sighed.
Some demons in Frosteria had animals that were their familiars. Humans didn’t have that luxury—an owl she endlessly tried to provoke to land on her arm was the closest she would ever get.
Eirah glanced once more at the stars painting the obsidian sky. The moon rested above, seeming to watch over them, its shape the thinnest of slits on this night. If only the stars were made from ice and she held magic, then she would have created a frozen rope from water, latching onto one of their forms. She would have pulled it down to her hands and gifted the star to her father. Perhaps then he would smile, knowing her mother’s soul may not have been eternal here but possibly somewhere else.
She wondered if she achieved such things, would a star’s flesh be soft or hard? Would its temperature be cold or warm? And once in her hand, did the way it shone mean it would pulse like a heart?
“Enough with the nonsense, Eirah. So many foolish questions that will never be answered. And stop talking to yourself—the villagers already look at you strangely enough.” Unless they wanted to purchase items from her and her father. Even then, she felt their heavy stares as they studied some of her more grim music boxes and marionettes. Those were for herself and herself alone.
“Bah!” She threw her hands up in the air and whirled around. “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”
The snow sloshed beneath her boots as she headed back toward her cottage. After she closed the door behind her, a rush of heat pricked her frozen hands. A new log rested in the fireplace, flames eating away at its wooden layers. Her father—Fedir—glanced up at her from the desk in the corner of the room, his spectacles sitting low on his nose while he worked on attaching an arm to a marionette. Ever since she could remember, the sitting room had been littered with parts for toys and music boxes. Her father used to make weapons before Eirah was born, but when her mother became with child, his craft had turned to toymaking for both mortals and demons.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, removing her cloak and hanging it on the wall hook.
“No, but it seems you couldn’t, either.” He smiled, patting the stool beside him. Under the room’s low light, the wrinkles beside his gray eyes seemed to have deepened these past few months. Even his chestnut hair held more streaks of gray.
Eirah warmed her hands by the fire for a moment, regaining the feeling in them before sinking down on the wooden stool. Her father hadn’t slept well ever since Eirah’s mother passed away from a cough that had turned fatal. Eirah had only been five years old then, but she’d taken over assisting her father after that. She’d thought he would marry again, and Eirah wouldn’t have minded, yet he remained content with his toy-making and daughter.
At twenty, Eirah didn’t know when, or if, she would ever leave home. But for now, she had her marionettes, music boxes, and wind-up toys. Before starting on one of her creations, she quickly pulled her dark hair into a braid, then wound up one of her unfinished boxes and opened it. She watched as the dancer spun in a circle, elegantly holding out her hands while wearing a gown of blue ice and matching flowers in her hair.
The music drifted around her, its melody a little too crackly. She needed to work on that, but before she could think more about it, the music stopped.
Damn. If shedidhave magic, she knew precisely what she would have done with it, created a dancer ofrealice, and let her rotate for eternity without the song ever having to end. There would be no constant need to keep winding the box, and the mechanics wouldn’t need constant tweaking.
“Are you going to paint her face?” her father asked, his gaze meeting hers.
She studied the smooth brown face of the dancer, the onyx curls falling to her waist. “No, I like that no one knows what she’s thinking or feeling.”
“Gloomy thoughts, daughter.”
“Ah, Papa, but they are the best thoughts for creating, aren’t they?” She laughed, adjusting a piece of metal at the bottom of the box. She wound it up once more, letting the soft tinkling fill the room, this time the melody perfect.
“You’re so much like your mother. And me—but the second part might be a terrible thing.” He chuckled. “How about I make us some tea since our heads want to stay busy?”
“Peppermint, please.” Eirah scooped up one of the incomplete marionettes for a customer. This one did desire a face. Lifting a brush, she dipped it into pink paint to make the marionette cheeks.
For the remainder of the night, Eirah concentrated on painting, carving, and drinking tea until the sun rose through the window, lighting up the room. Her mind hadn’t rested once, taking her from one project to another, leaving some unfinished, some completed, even sparing a bit of time to make a deceased marionette wearing a wedding gown of all black. Too “macabre.”
Her stomach rumbled, and she glanced down. “Oh, you troublesome thing, always getting in the way of work.”
“Would you like me to start breakfast?” her father asked, using a needle to move around a minuscule piece of metal on a toy sleigh.
“No, it’s my turn.” With a yawn, Eirah stood from the stool and padded toward the kitchen when a knock pounded at the door.
“Tell the customer we don’t allow them here this early.” Her father frowned.
Eirah rolled her eyes. “Now, now, we can’t run them off.” Even though she would have rather snatched a piece of fruit first, she brushed her palms down the front of her deep sapphire dress before opening the door.
Desmond, the village chieftain’s son, stood on the porch, his thin lips pursed. “Good morning, Eirah.” He pushed a few dark braids behind his ear, his mahogany eyes appearing as unenthusiastic as his expression. “There’s to be a village meeting.”
She arched a brow. “When?” Eirah’s stomach now roiled with unease instead of hunger. It was much too soon for the monthly meeting, seeing as how they’d just had one the week prior.
