Here is Chapter 1 of The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas.
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| The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas by ID Johnson |
"Serendipity"
Marwolaeth Hall was an imposing structure with its gabled roofline, imposing turrets that numbered three, and the seemingly daunting sharpness of even its rounded turret that capped the bay window on the eastern side. It wasn’t necessarily the largest dwelling one might chance to come across in the moorland near the village of Dunsford, England, but it was certainly commanding enough to make one stop and consider the nature of those who would make such a place their home. Even in the daylight it seemed to whisper of treachery and consternation, and it was no wonder the original owners had given it such a fortuitous name.
Serendipity Fizzlestitch had not called Marwolaeth her home for nearly eight years, choosing instead to occupy a much smaller, much less daunting cottage nearly twenty furlongs to the south of her original home, off in the woods where the trees blocked most of the view of the gothic structure. Not that she ever went out where she could potentially catch a glimpse, nor did she ever dare peek out the tightly drawn, black woolen curtains. Her mind was apt to visit Marwolaeth even without a visual reminder and she found it best to distance herself in every way possible if she were to hold on to lingering strands of sanity, no matter how drifting or fleeting they may be. No, Serendipity had not stepped foot inside Marwolaeth even once since she had been dragged out screaming by Dr. Tweedlton and Deputy Shillingpepper the morning of April 8, 1862, the day she had killed her family.
The cottage consisted of one large room with a loft where Serendipity kept a mat on the floor where she occasionally gave in and rested for a few hours from time to time. More often, she dozed restlessly for an hour or so here and there in a wooden rocking chair situated near the fireplace, which was often the only source of light. Maevis was always telling her to open the curtains or light one of the lanterns she kept oiled on her weekly visits. But Serendipity preferred the dark. It was harder to see one’s sins in the absence of light.
It was also a bit harder to see her work, but she had become so accustomed to the repetitive movements of her art that she truly required very little of her eyesight. There were times, however, that she felt her eyes had become so accustom to the dark that she was fairly certain she would be able to see even in the pitch black. She has always had pale skin and light hair but now, whenever she accidentally caught a glimpse of herself in the tin tea pot or one of her other meager dishes, she hardly recognized herself. Which was not unwelcome. The idea of being someone else was a pleasant one, and perhaps, if she had the smallest spark of hope that she could ever metamorphosize into someone other than who she was, she might entertain the possibility of doing just that. But she knew in her heart she would never be more than the doll maker’s murderous daughter who occupied a cottage behind her childhood home which continued to mock her in every passing thought and memory.
She sat in her straight back chair near the fire, her large magnifying glass posed between herself and the head she held carefully in her right hand, a finely tipped paint brush slowly tapping against her chin as she contemplated precisely the expression for this newest beauty. Over the years, she had become so familiar with the medium she now felt as if she were able to interpret the personality behind each blank slate and bring forth a living individual from within. It generally only took a moment of careful contemplation before the face began to speak to her, and then the paint brush would begin to dance in her hand, and before she knew it, there was a jovial smiling face looking up at her.
After each layer of flesh toned paint, the doll would need to be fired. Since the kiln was located elsewhere on the property, Serendipity relied heavily on Maevis to take away her sweet friends and bring them back unharmed in a timely fashion. She had eventually come accustom to taking leave from one companion for a spell only to be reunited with her again time and again, finding solace in another equally precious individual as she waited, until at last the paint was set. Once that part was finished, Serendipity was free to complete each doll one by one, laying each solitary strand of hair, attaching the body and limbs, and crafting the perfect fashionable outfit and shoes to represent the personality that spoke to her from behind the blank facade.
Now, after several moments of quiet contemplation, this new friend began to speak, and Serendipity allowed her hand to flow freely across the surface of what would soon be a lovely face, the picture in her head projecting onto the bisque in fluid, unhurried movements.
As she worked, brushing on tiny eyebrow hairs one by one, there was a fluttering at the fireplace that momentarily caught her attention. The magnifying glass before her would have given any spectator a magnificent view of her left eye, had anyone been nearby, and she hurriedly pushed it aside so that she could attempt to discover what had apparently flown down the chimney.
Glancing about, she realized a medium-sized stark white envelope was resting comfortably atop the flickering shards of orange and purple waving about inside the hearth. It struck her fancy that the paper was not instantly engulfed in flames, but since she was rather busy with her new companion, she dismissed the phenomenon and returned to her work, certain that scurrying over to retrieve it would be of little use should it be capable of catching fire, and if for some reason it was impermeable to flames, it would be thusly situated upon completion of the feature she was now creating.
Several moments, perhaps half an hour, passed before Serendipity was satisfied with the smiling face, and she eventually sat the doll head down carefully on the roughly hewn wooden table that held her paints and turned her attention back towards the fireplace, certain that whatever wayward piece of postage had haphazardly found its way into her chimney would be long gone. But it wasn’t. It still sat there uncharred and unblemished atop the dancing flames, staring at her almost as intensely as the blank canvas she had just personified.
Serendipity stood and stretched her back, noting that it no longer seemed quite as erect as it once was from so many hours of carefully examining her work, and crossed the few feet to the fireplace. Before she made a move to retrieve the stalwart article, she contemplated its existence a moment longer. Finally, taking the poker in her long, spindly, paint-stained fingers, she drew the envelope out of the flames, and it came to rest on the brick surround, no worse for the wear.
Again, Serendipity hesitated. The envelope was seal side up, red wax with a mistletoe imprint anxiously awaiting the tear of a quick finger. She was certain that, once she flipped it over, she would see some print--something she would likely find indecipherable, as most writing was, and she did not like being faced with such a predicament within the solace of her own solitary abode.
At last, she bent down and took the letter in her hand, surprised that it didn’t even appear to be warm. With an audible sigh, she flipped it over and was surprised to see that she could, in fact, read the inscription. It simply said, “Serendipity Fizzlestitch,” written in neat, gold ink in legible, if not slightly fancy script.
A soft squeaking near her feet caught her attention, and she sighed again, this time in relief. Glancing down, she saw one of the few living creatures she considered a friend. “Well, Pozzeltot,” she said, bending to scoop the little mouse into her free hand, “it seems we’ve received a message.”
Pozzletot wiggled his little black, whiskery nose to and fro, rubbing his hands together several times before resting back on his haunches against Serendipity’s palm. His eyes were large and curious, and his tail wiggled back and forth as if he were trying to form a question mark.
“I haven’t any idea who it is from,” Serendipity admitted, flipping the foreign object over in her hand. “I would suppose it is some sort of a magic letter, if I still believed in magic,” she continued.
Once again, Pozzletot made an inquisitive sounding squeak, gesturing as if to ask a follow up question. He rubbed his nose with his hand and shook his tail. Then, looking off across the room, he squeaked again, louder this time, and within a few seconds several of his colleagues skittered across the room, congregating near Serendipity’s feet.
“Well, hello my little loves!” she exclaimed, dropping carefully to her knees and bending closer to the floor. “It seems like it’s been days since I’ve seen any of you, I’ve been so preoccupied with my work.” She lowered her hand so that Pozzletot could join the others and sat in silent observation as they seemed to chat in a language she could only assume to understand.
After a moment, she realized they were all gesturing toward the letter now, and she returned her attention to it as well. Once again, she examined the front and the back, turning it over in her hands several times, before shrugging her shoulders and addressing the small audience. “I suppose I could open it. It’s only… you know how I feel about… reading.”
Pozzletot stepped forward, an encouraging expression on his whiskery face. As she stood staring down at his innocent wide eyes,they momentarily morphed into the shocked expression of pain and disbelief she had created the last time she was in a similar situation, and her stomach began to tighten, her breathing labored. “No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, my friends. I… can’t. Not now.”
Before she could catch a glimpse of their disappointment, she stood, tossed the letter aside, not even watching as it landed near her rocking chair on the wooden floor, and returned hastily to her work. There was hair to string, gowns to stitch, shoes to assembly. Whatever the envelope contained could wait. Eventually, most of her tiny roommates scampered off, back into the solace of the cottage walls, leaving only Pozzletot to accompany her as she worked. He made his way up the gnarled table leg and found a seat next to Serendipity’s spool of thread. Though a dusty Singer occupied one corner of her living space, she preferred to stitch by hand, as her grandmother had shown her when she was a wee lass, and she was quick and accurate with her weapon of choice. Pozzletot often watched her work, often in silence, though the occasional squeak of marvel served as quality assurance even if her mind wandered from her work to distant times, as it so often did.
Occasionally, she would share her remembrances aloud in whispered stories to her tiny friends. Pozzletot was often joined by other members of the household; Bitsy, Muffincrumb, Mr. Waddlepants, or Gypsim, perhaps. Today, however, it was only he, and after a few moments, Serendipity began to justify herself.
“It’s not as if I have invited the outside world in, mind you,” she began mid-thought, insisting Pozzletot infer the context. “It’s probably nothing anyway, mind you. Perhaps a Christmas card….I believe the holiday season has just past. Perhaps it’s nothing but a piece of recently discovered postage the postman mishandled. I should think it would have been better directed to… the main house, where Maevis or Ms. Crotlybloom could have given it some attention.”
Pozzletot squeaked, and Serendipity shifted her eyes away from her work momentarily before returning them to the hem she was working on so adamantly. “I have no explanation as to why it didn’t catch fire and turn to ash,” she admitted. “Perhaps the world has invented some flame retardant paper in these past few years.” Once again her eyes flickered in his direction, and he seemed to scratch his head in disagreement. Huffing, Serendipity’s pale blue eyes crinkled a bit as she peered closely at the small stitches she rapidly, yet precisely, placed along the folded edge of gingham. “Don’t look at me like that,” she replied sharply. “You can’t begin to understand what it’s like for me….”
This time, Pozzletot seemed to disagree quite harshly, stamping his narrow foot and knocking Serendipity’s favorite paint brush off of the paint jar where she had rested it a few minutes ago. “Now, now,” she scolded, righting the instrument, “I won’t have you questioning my motives. It simply won’t do. You’re a guest here, after all, my tiny friend,” she reminded him.
Pozzletot slowly shook his head from side to side, a disparaging expression on his pointy face.
Serendipity tossed the dress onto her lap, paying little care for the sharp needle, which came loose from the thread and tinkled across the floor. The knot in her stomach was making itself known again, and flashes of grim faces, the wretched smell of vomit mixed with blood, and the harsh voice of her mother all came back to her. “Serendipity! What have you done? Foolish child! You’ve killed us all…”
“No!” she exclaimed, snapping back to the present. “I won’t do it.” Rising from the chair, she flung the dress on to the table, only slightly leery of the open paint jars, and turned her back to the astonished mouse sitting nearby. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Pozzletot, my head is aching. I think I shall retire to my quarters for some rest.”
Pozzletot squeaked at her retreating back as she made her way across the room to the rickety ladder that led to her loft space. His protests fell on deaf ears, and Serendipity ascended to her private chambers with nothing more to be said from any of her permanent house guests.
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