The Toymaker's Apprentice Read Free

single eye grew bright with tears. “You’re not the shop boy, you’re her son. My little cousin, Stefan.” He faltered for a moment. “I . . . I am so very sorry for your loss. What happened?”
    Stefan’s own eyes begin to sting. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Scarlet fever. Really, I must ask you to step aside. I have a coach to catch,” he insisted, racing against his grief.
    â€œOf course,” Christian said, his voice softened in sympathy. “You were just stepping out.”
    Stefan shoved past, afraid he would burst into tears in front of these strangers. His bag swept the workbench, and the half-finished sign,
Drosselmeyer and Son
, slapped to the ground with a clatter. The letter to his father drifted to the floor beside it.
    All eyes were on the sign now. Stefan grimaced, wishing he could sink into the earth and disappear.
    The dark man grunted. “Running out seems more like it. A family trait, I suppose.”
    Stefan gasped, surprised by the man’s bluntness. He scrambled to pick up the fallen note, and shoved it into his pocket to hide his embarrassment. Christian bent beside him and picked up the sign. “On the day of his mother’s funeral, too.”
    Stefan sputtered, embarrassment turning into anger. But with whom was he angry—them, or himself?
    â€œQuite heartless,” Christian murmured. Dusting off the sign with a gloved hand, he placed it back on the workbench, upside down once again. “Or, perhaps the boy feels too much?” He stepped back, clicking the heels of his black boots together. “Don’t let us keep you. We’ll just wait inside for your father and explain when he gets here. Unless, of course, you left a note.” He scanned Stefan’s reddening face. “Ah, you
did
leave a note. You’re not cruel, then. Just restless, eh? I was the same at your age.”
    â€œYou can’t just stay here,” Stefan said.
    â€œWhy not? You’re leaving. It’s nothing to you anymore.”
    Not true, Stefan realized as this infuriating man sat on the stool before one of the workbenches—
his
workbench ! The one his father had built just for him when he could barely see over the top of it. His chest swelled at the offense. If only his tongue would untie itself long enough for him to respond.
    â€œYour mother was a wonderful woman, Stefan,” Christian said suddenly. “You must miss her terribly.”
    Stefan blinked away more tears. “I’m trying not to look back,” he said stoically.
    â€œWe all try,” Christian replied. “Now, before you’re off, would you be so kind as to help my man with our luggage?” He indicated the open doorway.
    Stefan gave up. He left his own bag by the door and stepped outside to find Samir closing the latch on one of two large black suitcases. Leather saddlebags lay against the side of the house. The horses were nowhere to be seen. At least he wouldn’t have to play stableboy, too.
    â€œCharmed you, has he?” Samir asked.
    â€œMore like confused and surprised,” Stefan said. “But not charmed.”
    â€œThen you would be the first. I see he has managed to keep you from leaving?”
    â€œI’m just here to help with the bags. I still have manners. And you have odd ones, for a valet.”
    Samir raised an eyebrow. “Valet?” He shook his head and broke into a white-toothed grin. “I’m no manservant.”
    Stefan flushed. “My apologies. He called you his ‘man.’ You are friends?”
    â€œNo,” Samir replied. “I am his jailer.” He tossed the saddlebags effortlessly to Stefan, who staggered under their weight.
    â€œHis jailer . . . ?”
    The Persian or Moor or whatever he was stepped back, bowed deeply, and said, “Samir abd al-Malik, formerly of Arabia, Royal Astrologer of Boldavia and royally appointed jailer