Wintergreen

the dolls make a game of dressing up in clothes that blend, writing up fake plaques, and sneaking themselves in to be admired by unsuspecting museum-goers

every day at closing time, the docents have to chase them out with brooms

you asked your perfect sweetie service doll to help you practice Spanish

you wake up to weight on your chest, silicon carbide fingernails at your throat, & "¡buenos días! ¡tenemos que practicar español!" in your ear

she really wants to see Mexico and doesn't trust the green owl

"you wanted to know where you came from," you say to your doll.

"and i wanted to welcome the next doll into this world and this household, and tell it that it was made with love, by this doll's hands. but now… is it…"

your doll waves its hands pitifully.

"distressed?"

"distressed. or damaged. or afraid."

"well, let's think about that. how would we know? could it tell us?"

"not without a voice, my Witch."

"could it cry?"

"not without a face, my Witch."

"what about body language?"

"it does have a body, my Witch. but it's not the shape it was supposed to be!"

it was supposed to resemble your doll. in fact, it looks rather like a huge porcelain snow crab, almost filling the cauldron, with extrusions of brass forming joints and the cutting surfaces of its claws. there is a brass keyhole on its back, and a key, already slowly turning.

there are many lessons in dollcraft. truth be told, you never planned to teach your doll more than a few. you certainly never planned to cover this contingency, probably the oldest in dollcraft.

maybe you're being taught a lesson, somehow.

"and whose fault is that, my Doll?"

"it is this doll's fault—"

"no," you interrupt. "it's a terrible thing, but binding spirit to body — it's chancy. it always has been. one in a thousand, maybe, something like this might happen. it's not your fault, but it is your responsibility."

"what would you have done to this doll, my Witch, if this 'one in a thousand' had happened to it?"

your doll looks up at you, pleading eyes begging for a comforting truth, or a comforting lie of the sort witches tell when they have an ugly solution. unfortunately, you have no comfort for it. it's a lesson you've been never sure that you learned.

"there is a rite of unmaking," you admit. "i will not tell you that it does not add to distress, damage, or fear, because i have no way of knowing. all that i can tell you for sure is how to perform it — and that it is over quickly."

your doll's tears double, and redouble, and it sobs so sadly, oil spilling down its pinafore, and then a moment later, it stops.

"thank you, my Witch. this doll requests that you not teach it this rite. not yet."

"what do you intend, my Doll?"

it hauls the crab-doll out of the cauldron, not without effort; it's nearly the size of your doll. it checks the key, winds the crab-doll up a little further.

"to learn all that this doll can learn of dollcraft, and, to start with, of crab body language."

"you intend to keep it, then? you have your usual tasks, of course."

"they will be done, my Witch."

the next time you see the crab-doll, it is on the end of a little leash of white silk ribbon, and to all appearances, it is waiting patiently on the kitchen floor.

while your doll does the dishes, she sings a song to it that you have never heard before.