The Dollmaker turned the key. The doll’s head rotated 180 degrees with a perfect, ratcheted tick . Her empty eyes now stared straight at the woman in diamonds.
With a soft click , her spine straightened three degrees. Her gloved fingers, frozen mid-gesture over an invisible tea tray, twitched once and then held. House Of Gord Dollmaker
She wore a maid’s cap, starched white, tilted at a jaunty angle. The Dollmaker turned the key
The Dollmaker finally looked up. He smiled—thin, dry, avuncular. ” he murmured.
The woman stepped back. The bellows sighed. The party continued.
“Posture check,” he murmured.