You hesitate at the first line of wards before pressing deeper into my territory. The paper strips rustle overhead on their cord, swaying in spite of the stillness of the night air.

Ah, another one.

You jump at a strange, unnatural chirp, bringing forth your stolen knife only to find nothing but a pair of bird figurines made from clear glass perched on a fallen tree branch facing you. You share a moment of inanimate stillness in the moon beam piercing the canopy of young pines, trying to spot whomever placed them in the gloom beyond in spite of the scratch on your remaining eye.

This reverie is broken by a faint burbling sizzle from further in. You proceed warily, the path lit by the occasional moonbeam.

The strange chirps continue to split the night air as you duck under a broken slab of concrete that has resisted the best efforts of the local plant life, evading the sinister grasp of rusted and crumbling rebar protruding from it as you stand to survey your objective. You ignore the cartoonishly proportioned glass rats clustered on the rubble pile as you look for a way into my Atelier.

You climb the cage around the propane tank next to my studio window, but I’m busy with a dazzlingly bright ball of molten light on the other side of the room.

There they are, rows of glass eyes within a display case by the door on the other side of the room, sparkling in the radiance of the miniature sun slowly dancing in the air before me.

My servants watch you trace the rim of your empty socket with the fingers of one hand while tightening your grip on the knife in your other.

The light begins to fade from the levitating ball, transitioning from a white that would be blinding if you still had a natural eye through a warm spectrum like glowing honey, finally becoming colourless before I leave the room with it.

Here’s your chance.

You push on the window, but it's stuck. For a moment you consider trying to lever it open with your knife, but to your alarm it slides open without a noise. An octopus figurine chirps from the windowsill inside. It wasn’t there before. Somewhere deep behind your marred porcelain face comes a twinge of emotion, though your facade retains its slight, knowing smirk.

You advance inside cautiously, menacing the inanimate octopus with your knife as you listen for a hint that I might return at just the wrong time before you hop down to the bench. Stepping around tools and over bits of broken glass to rappel down the sturdy rubber hoses attached to my bench torch, you move with the awareness you're being watched but aren’t willing to give up all pretense of subterfuge. The cautious haste of your step implies there’s no time to punish me for being a witch, especially not with minions that you have yet to see move with only one barely intact eye. You spare a glance at the gathering watchers, jealous of their stealth as you sprint across my Atelier floor, certain this is a trap but too close to your prize to turn back.

It’s easy to climb onto the display case, a bundle of folded cardboard boxes making for a perfect ramp, and the latch is easy to move even with one hand occupied by the blade you present towards my watching servants. You gaze in fascination at the myriad different pairs of eyes, forgetting your previous urgency. There are many different sizes, colours, and patterns, each pair of opalescent half-spheres resting on black felt, and you hesitate from choice paralysis.

"I'm not sure any of those would suit you."

You whirl, ready to punish me for springing the trap you knew was coming!...but something keeps you rooted in place, forces you to lower the tip of the chef’s knife that had become your trusty sword, and you scream at me in the silent way I have grown to expect.

“No, not a trap, just a precaution. You're not the first killer doll to visit me."

A tea set floats in on a repurposed sheet pan and comes to rest on a steel pot filled with water and bits of broken glass sitting on the workbench. Steam curls from the kettle as you realize how warm it is in here compared to the outside, and how chilly you still are. I follow it over, leaving my back to you as I fuss over the teapot. I don’t need to look through my servitors’ eyes to feel you staring holes in my back, but my tail remains in a confident question mark. 

“Why don’t you come up here? There’s a chair that should fit you while you wait,” comes a not-quite-question. 

You resist the compulsion, unwilling to trust, let alone obey a witch again, but it smells nice...

It’s not as easy to climb back up as it was to come down, especially with your blade out, but you manage. Just as I said, there’s a chair waiting for you, almost seeming to have been knitted from glass, and it sparkles from the twinkling of the RGB LEDs that came on even as the rest of the studio lighting dimmed. You find your feet don’t quite reach the floor. 

The teapot tilts on its own, pouring its contents into an appropriately sized teacup at your end of the ersatz table, both it and its saucer made of swirling blues, purples, and hazy yellow-white glass. I pour my own as you cautiously pick it up.

“It’s milk oolong, my favourite. You know, most of my visitors like yourself like tea, though not all of you actually drink it. For some, it’s the aroma, for others it’s the warmth. Some just like the comfort of the ritual.”

You cradle the cup awkwardly against you. I sip mine. We regard each other for a long moment. 

“So, let’s get started. Hmm…I can’t replace your face, pâte de verre isn’t my thing. New eyes are no problem, though. But what colour? Perhaps something sparkly.”

The tip of your knife twitches as I lean in to examine you closer. Predator! says something deep in your mind. I step away and begin to sort through various rods of coloured glass tucked into drawers or standing upright in jars. I hold them up to the now-dim light, put them back, pick up others, and repeat before eventually making a sour noise and turning on a bright overhead lamp.

You sit impassively, the warmth and aroma of the tea suffusing you with comfort. You set aside your knife on the bench below your chair. I pull out the stool and light up my torch with a wooshing hiss, tail waving from beneath my skirt as I tug on long, yellow, fingerless gloves. I notice the way you’re looking at me, then give you a not-quite-feline smirk.

“You know, I wasn’t always a witch. I actually started off as a familiar, if you believe it.” Your head tilts subtly. My ears twitch. "I got bigger." I chuckle at my own joke since you're not going to.

"Now, I'll just take the old broken ones out to see precisely what I'm working with...come now, don't squirm. You entered willingly even when you felt the nonviolence sigils announce themselves."

You stop reaching for your discarded knife, sparing a glance after the fallen cup you dropped in your haste to defend yourself when I moved a little too quickly into your comfort zone. I pick up a thin glass rod from the bench and twirl it at the mess of spilled tea and broken glass where it fell and rolled off to the floor. The cup reforms, floating back up to the tray; the liquid vanishes.

“Don’t worry about it. Glass breaks. Now, be still, unless you want to figure out how to do this on your own.”

I reach for you, and this time you remain still. There's an irresistible tugging on your head, then a chill inside. Briefly, you watch me set the top of your head on a little stand and straighten the curls of your hair. Darkness follows more strange pulling sensations.

“Alright, got them both. These won’t be hard to improve on, much less replace. Now, just sit back and relax like a good doll should. This won’t take too long. I already have some blanks prepped that are just your size.”

Sizzle-tink-sizzle.

“I wonder...are you a serial killer trapped by a curse, an abused servant who threw off their shackles, or just a lonely doll who learned not to trust witches after being abandoned? No, don’t tell me, I prefer the mystery.”

Sizzle-tink-sizzlechirple.

“You know, I like making eyes more than I do crystal balls even though the latter pays much better."

Sizzle-tink-tink-sizzle.

“And now for a fire polish...there, that's both of them. Now, let's get these annealed. More tea? I can see you like the warmth."

The teapot burbles again, then you feel the warm glass of the teacup as it's pressed into your waiting hands. My stool creaks, and the hissing flame stops.

It's deafeningly quiet for a moment that stretches long enough that even a doll like you could get a little uncomfortable. I set something down on the far end of the bench with a quiet thump, breaking the spell.

“It's strange, you know. I've had so many visitors like yourself and yet I still don't know how you find me. Some I recognize when they accompany their witches, some I know only by their eyes. None of you have been able to explain how you travel the Wylds to find my Atelier.”

You shift in the chair curiously.

“Of course I understand you. It’s not like I’m human after all, and speech isn't the only way to communicate.”

You think for a moment, then slouch.

"I know you don't remember either. Travel through the Wylds is like that for everyone, sometimes even for the ones who live there."

Another indeterminately long moment passes. Something I am doing is making subtle clicking noises.

"That should be long enough. Let's get you fitted."

You feel yourself being lifted and manipulated, though this time you don't try to escape or even struggle as you're held. 

It's...nice.

There's a strange pressure inside your head, then on it. Suddenly you can see again, and with both eyes now. I fuss your hair back into some semblance of order before returning you to the chair.

"There you go."

Everything looks ... brighter, more focused. I hold up a hand mirror to show you your new eyes, the violet irises rutilated with glittering metallic red. You blink, then blink again, stunned at your new ability. You haven't blinked since...you straighten as you realize something, and fix me with a furtive gaze.

"Don't worry about payment. Like I said earlier, this is just a hobby for me. Here, I'll even clean and mend your dress."

You give me an uncertain look, full of questions. I lift one of the glass rods and your outfit sheds its grime, loose seams tightening and rips sewing themselves.

"Yes, I know what you are. I know what you'll probably go on to do, and how you'll probably meet your end."

I shrug at you and pour myself more tea, one ear flicking.

"That's a problem for other witches to worry about. I'm certainly not going to order you around, let alone try to change your nature. Stay or go, it’s up to you."

You stay until you finish your tea, hopping down off the bench to go stand by the door, waiting to be let out. I open the door with a gesture, then pick up the knife you left and offer it out handle-first. You look at it for a long moment then shake your head. I give you a languid blink. You clasp your little hands at your waist and bow.

I incline my head in response, tail held in a slight question mark, and you’re gone. The door closes at my subtle gesture, and I ignite my torch again. What a good little doll.

“Good luck out there,” I say to no one that can hear me.

 

You hesitate at the first line of wards before pressing deeper into my territory. The paper strips rustle overhead on their cord, swaying in spite of the stillness of the night air.

Ah, another one.