“If your mistress does not deign to reveal herself to us, well, to move against one of our own would grieve this council terribly, but—”
YOU THINK YOU KNOW GRIEF
The doll in front of them was not speaking aloud as the other had. This scraping voice echoed within my own mind.
GRIEF IS AN ART I MASTERED MILLENIA BEFORE YOU WERE BORN
A glance around the room revealed that the others heard it too. This was not the doll introduced to us as “Missy” speaking directly into my head with a voice like my own skull shouting. This was the Witch of Bones.
“Ah. So you are she. Know we will not be intimidated by some ‘bone witch’ and her doll who appeared in our city—” the Speaker was interrupted again by cruel laughter reverberating painfully through each of our minds.
THE STARLIGHT WITCH IS NOT MY DOLL
SHE MADE ME
I AM HERS
Hm. Two false dolls, concealing witches? One was unusual and concerning enough. Two working together? Unheard of.
“I don’t—!”
I TAUGHT HER THE ART OF DOLLMAKING CENTURIES AGO
I AM HER CRAFT PERFECTED
I WILL TEACH YOU THE ART OF GRIEF
YOU WILL BE MY CRAFT PERFECTED
I cannot speak of what came later, in the eternity between those words and the return of the other doll—the “Starlight Witch”—bearing a tray of fresh-baked pastries for us.
The Witch of Bones ceased her hostility the moment her companion returned, to the relief of us all.
We fled, pushing and stumbling against each other in a frenzy to escape, each of us a sobbing wreck unable to muster the smallest scrap of dignity.
We decided amongst ourselves that the so-called Apostate House could remain unmolested for the time being.