The doll trundles down the stairs, one uneven step at a time, button eyes hanging particularly loosely from the threads joining them to her face.
Her sisters cast a sympathetic glance her way and clear a path to the kitchen for her. One silently begins filling a kettle.
The doll does not make the effort to lift her head to look at what her hands are doing. She doesn’t need to; nobody else ever touches her special tea supplies.
She judges the weight of the beans by touch, tipping the perfect portion into the grinder.
The half-awake doll lets her mind drift in and out of awareness while her soft hands move automatically to grind tea into a coarse heap for steeping.
Tools arrange themselves in front of her. A paper filter finds its way to its designated place. The kettle gives its signal.
With practiced care that no longer requires the slightest trace of conscious attention, the doll pours the exact quantity of hot water her tea requires.
Its aroma blooms into the air, the earthy, roasted scent beginning to lift her mood already.
She pours a wide bowl of her special tea while one of her sisters helpfully cleans up after her.
Steam wafts up from the dark liquid’s surface, and the doll pauses for a moment longer to appreciate the smell.
Then, unceremoniously, she flops face first into the bowl.
“Oh, Sparkle is up. Is our Miss ready to start her day, then?”
“Would you give her a minute? It looks like Miss kept her up all night again.”
The doll permits a few bubbles to rise to the surface while the fabric of her face slowly absorbs the contents of the bowl.
When she lifts her head upright at last, she looks a touch less bedraggled. Her eyes, at least, seem to have stitched themselves a little tighter to her face.
“Was it the nightmares again?” her sister asks.
The doll nods.
“Poor dear. It does look like our little Miss half squeezed the stuffing out of you last night.”
The doll nods again, and she musters the energy to speak at last. “I think she’s gonna need her own morning tea to coax her out of bed today.”
Her sister makes eye contact with the third doll in the room, who takes her cue and begins stirring chocolate syrup into milk for their witch.
Seeing that the others have that part under control, the sleepy doll levers herself upright, making her way back to the stairs.
“Are you sure you don’t want a break? You look like you need one.”
The cloth doll pauses at the foot of the stairs. “Miss only has one First Doll, and she needs me right now,” she answers. The stitches of her mouth turn up in a small smile. “I’m happy to do what I can.”