A doll’s shadow twists and dances on the wall behind it, its rhythm the rhythm of erratic candle-flame flickers.
The other dolls in the room do not dare to cast their own shadows, of course. Not here, not now, where it would seem awfully presumptuous—downright impolite, even!
It is important for the dolls to give their witch this kind of time to stretch, to cavort, to be free.
Witches love cavorting, after all.
Especially one bound within her own dolls the way she is. Stillness chafes one such as her.
Such a flimsy, delicate witch, not even with a body of her own. Unable to so much as possess a doll as a vessel. Only able to whisper desires into porcelain ears.
And occasionally, when the light is just right, project herself as a shadow to spend time with faithful dolls.