The day started early for the witch of Artemisia’s Doll Boutique. She came down from the attic room while the birds were still finding their voice in the pre-dawn light. She wore rabbit-eared slippers on the narrow treads; against slipping, not the cold. She didn’t really feel cold. It wasn't clear whether this was a staircase or a ladder; too steep for the former, not quite steep enough for the latter.

In this supply room, the witch—Floriane Artemisia—had her wardrobe; the attic did not have a lot of space. She dressed; a conservative witch ensemble. Dark skirt, with arcane symbols in a different shade of black. Its lines were straight but with hidden pleats; sometimes she needed mobility. Her blouse was cream; it looked like it had subtle pinstripes, but each was a line of microscopic sigils. Her hat—black, austere, not too wide of brim—hung on the back of the door. She took it, as she exited—still rabbit-footed—into the stockroom.

She waved a hand, and the lights appeared; dim and yellowish, soft. Some humans—even some young witches—found this room spooky. Floriane did not. She supposed that it reminded humans of corpses; ridiculous—she could feel the comforting life around her. She saw the faint blush on not-quite flesh, and if you waited long enough, you may see one of them breathe. But maybe it was simply the appearance—rows of closed eyes—that disturbed humans. Each doll was in its own case, a box, really, but finely made. A glass front to each, a silver border, tiny hinges, a lock hasp; though the dolls in this room were never locked in. To want to—to be able to—leave the tranquillum cantrip that filled the box when the glass door was shut meant that something was wrong. Something she, as their witch, needed to know about. No, her dolls were filled with blessed stillness, standing inert in their boxes, resting on smooth velvet-coated wooden hooks under their arms. As was her habit, Floriane crossed to one of the boxes at random, and checked her makeup in the glass; her eyebrows dagger-sharp, her lips plump and crimson. It was, she thought, licking her pinkie and barely adjusting an eyebrow, important to create the right impression. Beyond the glass, this doll rested in something beyond sleep; yet Floriane knew that some of the psychic images would make their way to the doll-mind. Some part of them would be reassured to know their temporary witch was close by.

She went over wooden floorboards to the spiral stairs; there was a cargo elevator as well, but it made quite a noise, and Floriane liked the quietness too much.

Her slippers were silent on the cast-iron staircase; it was black and reassuringly solid, the maker’s mark—Wayworn & Forplaint—on every step. It was virtually the only fitting that had not needed to be replaced when Floriane had bought the rundown grocer’s shop. She had been right though; this part of the city had been on the up. If the grocer’s business had survived another few decades, maybe they could have rebranded it as a delicatessen, to fit with the independent bookshops, jewellers, and clothes shops that now filled the area. But Floriane had bought it instead; with old and blood-splattered witch’s gold.

The store was dark now; the counter unmanned, and the fitting rooms empty. Her unused broom stood in a rack by the door. In a few hours, her apprentice Rosa would open up, putting her well-used broom in the rack alongside it. Floriane smiled faintly; she enjoyed being alone, but Rosa did make the place more lively. At least, she told herself that she enjoyed being alone. The point was moot: she had too many secrets to take a lover.

Floriane stopped briefly at the well-equipped kitchen; making a coffee with plenty of cream and sugar. Then she continued down another floor, to her basement workshop.

She placed her coffee on her desk, then put on a white coat from a battered coat stand. The room was busy—not untidy, exactly, but filled with Floriane’s projects. The desk was burdened with open volumes, and much of the floor was covered in rough hewn boxes and thick glass jars containing doll parts. She was careful to keep the examination table free from debris though.

Around the edges of the room, there were more doll cases; these had padlocks through the hasp. A few even had a metal mesh over the glass. Bad dolls, brought cheaply, or free; in some cases rescued from the justice of an official inferno. Floriane didn’t really believe in bad dolls, only bad witches. I should know, she thought, I am one.

She took a sip of coffee; often, like today, her project comes to her from out of nowhere. Fate or inspiration, she thought. She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves.

She went to Willow’s box; unlocked the steel padlock with a key magicked out of nowhere. She lifted Willow out; it stood on its feet without problems, but did not open its eyes. Floriane brushed back its dark brown hair; it opened its eyes—dark brown also—and stared at her. Floriane cast an aura reading spell; it hovered nearby, a circle of lines and sparks. Dolls were harder to read—without magic—than witches or humans; they were simpler than those, and much of their nature was their environment, or their trauma, or perhaps an inverse mirror of their witch’s nature. She could see a disharmony at the centre of this doll, sluggish sparks in the reader.

“Undress,” instructed Floriane, firmly but not unkindly. There was a bit of the witches timbre in there, a gentle suggestion not to disobey.

There was a pause, a hesitation; many dolls were embarrassed when given these sorts of instructions, but this was something different. No sparks of excitement paralleling the embarrassment. 

Slowly, it started to undress. Floriane bit back wanting to help it, to rip the clothes off with magic or unnatural strength. That would not help. It was dressed in a maid’s costume, but one too frilly and flouncy for Floriane’s taste. Gradually the pieces hit the floor, and it stood, shielding itself. This was ill-disciplined, but there was no point in punishment. Floriane sighed; she liked punishment, but this was not the time for her pleasure. 

“Lie on the table,” she said.

Willow hesitated and then climbed on; lying awkwardly, trying to hide its penis.

She swung one of the manacles up to the topside of the table. “Doll, you will be restrained for your own protection,” Floriane said, though it was also for hers. And perhaps a tiny bit because she liked restraints. 

She secured the wrists without any problem; soft leather and binding steel snapping shut. She checked its aura: there was some excitement there, but it was buried under dysfunction. Experimentally, Floriane grasped one of its breasts; again a buzz of arousal was swiftly swamped.

Willow refused to move its legs; Floriane carefully but inexorably pulled each ankle towards a manacle. Then it was spreadeagled, unable to hide; the dysfunction had gone wild.

“Hush, don’t worry, doll,” said Floriane. Standing at the foot of the table, she grasped its penis, massaging with both hands. She kept an eye on Willow’s aura as the cock became erect; but it was local arousal only—normally the doll’s whole body would be quivering.

Sure now that she was right, she quietly mouthed the words of a spell. Cold blue flames formed around her hands, flowing and encircling. With one hand she made sure the shaft was fully extended, with the other she grasped around the base and the balls. Then a vicious twist, and the cock was free, writhing in the air. Willow gasped, not in pain—the flames could numb, if needed—but in surprise. Floriane put the cock in a thick-walled jar; it was pretty nice—big, perhaps too big, and capable of full erection. She would find some doll who needed it, or some witch who wanted it.

She looked at the aura reader; the dysfunction was already ebbing, but Floriane was not finished yet. Where the penis had been removed there was simply a blank pubis; if you looked closely, you could see a faint spiral in the pseudo-flesh where the penis had been. A master fleshcrafter could have avoided that; Floriane was not yet at that level. It didn’t matter though, save as a sting to Floriane’s pride. 

She massaged the mound with her hands, blue flames still burning. With her thumb she made a furrow, slowly, then folds and lips around it. With soft origami she formed a clitoris, making sure it was linked into the doll’s nerves. At the moment the cleft was only superficial, but narrowing her fingers she gently formed a proper hole. The doll moaned; checking the aura reader, it was aroused and emotional, with no sign of disharmony. 

Floriane turned down the numbing effect and checked that everything was working. Her fingers caused the doll to spasm and shake; rattling the restraints. Floriane took it briskly to orgasm, watching its aura.

“What do you have to say, doll?” asked Floriane. 

“Thank you, Miss.” The doll was crying.

Floriane let the blue flames go out, and stripped off the nitrile gloves. Perhaps another test was necessary, she thought.

She unbuttoned the white coat and put it back on its hook. She unzipped her skirt, and let it fall to the floor. Floriane climbed onto the table, holding herself above Willow. At the last minute, Floriane remembered to kick off her rabbit slippers.

The doll turned away in humility and embarrassment. Floriane took its chin and turned it to face her, enjoying the blush that followed. Her witchcock was fully erect by now; she lowered her middle onto the doll, rubbing against its new folds. Willow moaned; the aura reader thrumming with excitement. Floriane penetrated Willow with glacial smoothness. Then she began to thrust, slowly at first, watching Willow gasp, its breathing becoming uneven. She got faster, the in-out rhythm picking up. Willow began to orgasm again. “Sorry, Miss,” it panted. It was probably used to an orgasm-only-when-instructed command; Floriane rarely bothered with such things. She kept going; Willow’s orgasms making it writhe and spasm. 

Then she finished also, christening the doll’s new pussy. They breathed together for a few moments, then Floriane slid off the table. She used a cantrip—tersus—to clean herself, the table, and the doll. She pulled up her skirt and zippered it, shuffling into her slippers.

She unfastened the restraints. 

“Get down,” she said. Willow was a little unsteady; she helped it off the table. She saw a blip on the aura reader; a shadow amongst the fading euphoria, located in the speech area.

“Speak,” said Floriane, loading her voice with plenty of witches timbre. 

“You are my witch.” It was not phrased as a question.

“Yes,” said Floriane. “Temporarily.”

“Will this one… will this one go back to the last witch?” it said, quietly. 

“No,” said Floriane. “I bought you off Ms. Hardgrave.” At a bargain price, too; Hardgrave was pleased to get rid of a doll who was descending into catatonia. Floriane watched its aura bounce up. “This is a doll store. You will stay here until we find a suitable witch.”

“The last witch… the last witch, she…” it began, aura wobbling. Floriane bent and kissed its mouth, hard; sending in tendrils of magic.

“You don’t remember that anymore,” said Floriane, when she had broken off. There was a little blood on her lip.

“Remember what, Miss?” it said.

“Nothing important,” said Floriane. “I’m going to find you a good witch.”

The doll nodded.

“Now it’s time for you to go to sleep,” she said. 

“Yes, Miss,” it said. It looked momentarily at the pile of clothes.

“Did you like that outfit?” said Floriane. 

“This one wears whatever it is—” it began.

Floriane waved it into silence. “I think, for now, you will remain naked,” she said, watching embarrassment and arousal war in its aura.

“Yes, Miss,” it said, blushing. “Thank you, Miss.”

Floriane lifted it back into its box; not bothering with the lock this time. She checked that the aura reader reported stillness, and then shut it off.

She stretched; it had gotten late. One wall had an alcove, with glass bricks set into the sidewalk above; it showed diffuse morning sun. She could hear movement from the shop above. 

Floriane levitated Willow’s box to near the cargo elevator, for later, and went up the spiral stairs.

Rosa had opened up, light streaming in through the front window. She had also fetched down two dolls from the storeroom. Dana and Millicent; a good cook and a decent maid. Millicent could be a problem though, it was a little bratty. It was a common problem with cat-dolls; a certain felineness to their nature was expected. The minority of her stock was so formed; cats, foxes, sometimes bunnies. Very occasionally, puppy-dolls; but the Great Hellhound Rebellion had made those deeply unfashionable. Sometimes, like Millicent, it was mostly fleshcrafting to add ears and tail. In other cases, like Alysa, a fox-doll in a case upstairs, it was a magical merging, usually by a nature witch. Floriane didn’t really like most nature witches: you’re not better because you live in a bog. 

“Good morning, Prentice Rosa,” said Floriane. 

“Good morning, Miss Artemisia,” said Rosa, largely drowned out by the dolls sing-songing, “Morning, Miss.”

Floriane took her black high-heeled shoes from a cubby under the counter, and swapped them with her rabbit slippers. She saw—reflected in the shiny brass counter fittings—Rosa watching her legs as she slipped her shoes on. 

“Anything to report, Rosa?” she asked. She was careful to keep everything professional with Rosa. Much as it would be nice not to.

“N-no,” said Rosa, a touch defensively. “Nothing to report, Miss Artemisia. It’s sunny, though a bit cold. Might rain later. I brought my big coat. A lot of dried leaves about; maybe they will need raking.”

“Thank you. Call me Floriane if you wish,” she said, knowing that her apprentice wouldn’t. Rosa was a trainee witch; she attended Pennyroyal Academy most evenings; she was—from what Floriane had seen—competent academically, but had some trouble with the witchy mindset. Not really a problem; that would come with time.

“Would you like a coffee, Miss Artemisia?” asked Rosa. Floriane winced as she remembered the half-drunk cup in the workshop.

“Maybe later,” she said. “Oh, Willow is ready to come upstairs. Please put it in the stockroom when you have a moment.”

“You fixed it, Miss Artemisia?” Rosa said.

“Obviously,” said Floriane. “A little fleshcrafting was all it took.”

Rosa nodded eagerly. “You’re so good, Miss Artemisia.”

Floriane preened slightly; she considered herself a bad witch, all things considered, but enjoyed compliments.

She took out yesterday’s paperwork and began organising; she had an office, but liked to take some time at the counter each morning. The boutique didn’t get many customers, but neither did it need them; their dolls were high quality and priced accordingly. Their only clientele was witches; unlike some disreputable retailers, Floriane would not sell dolls to humans. That was a terrible business; Floriane sometimes picked up a cheap doll from the estate of an unlucky millionaire. She had no sympathy for the millionaire; let them buy a fancy grave with their fortune.

Rosa was checking her phone, scrolling and stabbing with her finger. Floriane disapproved somewhat, but refused to say anything, fearing it would mark her as old-fashioned. Floriane was careful not to stray into what she thought of as young people’s areas of expertise. 

She thought, for example, that Rosa’s mode of dress was not entirely appropriate for a high-end doll boutique. Rosa was dressed in what she believed they called the gothic style; Floriane did approve of the colour scheme—blacks and purples—but didn’t approve of the skirt. Skirts that short should be for dolls only. Floriane couldn’t say she disapproved, exactly, of Rosa’s lower thigh and below—it was soft, plump, and delicious looking, wrapped in fishnets—but she wasn’t sure it was appropriate. Her tee shirt, similarly, had a neck hole too big, so it was always falling off one shoulder or the other, and had—deliberate—cuts in it, such that an observant onlooker could see glimpses of mesh undergarments. Her makeup—plum lip gloss and shadowy eyes—was pretty enough, but could have been done with more precision. Floriane wondered if there was any—carefully neutral—way she could offer to help. She imagined Rosa’s face below hers, turned upwards as Floriane applied eyeshadow. Her lips parted as she applied lip gloss.

Millicent moved by, polishing the already shiny counter, and bumping into Floriane, startling her from her revery. Millicent flicked its tail up Floriane’s leg, and ‘accidentally’ reversed into her again.

Floriane sighed and moved forward, trapping Millicent, and bending it over the counter. Floriane gripped the back of its neck. It meowed quietly.

“Rosa!” she said, voice raised. “Do you remember my instructions vis-à-vis Millicent?”

Rosa started and put her phone down rapidly, blushing. “Yes… no… Miss Ar—”

“It is very annoying unless vigorously taken or sternly disciplined before working,” said Floriane. “Did that happen?”

“No, Miss Artemisia.” Rosa was definitely turning red.

Floriane stepped back and pushed Millicent toward Rosa.

“You may use my office,” Floriane instructed.

“For… for which, Miss Artemisia?” said Rosa.

“For either, Rosa,” Floriane said. “You are the trainee witch; do whatever you prefer. Or both. It does not concern me, and Millicent does not get a say.” 

She watched them go into the office, and attended to the accounting for a while. 

After a time, Floriane sensed the soft crackle of the tersus cantrip, done to middling quality. Rosa and Millicent emerged, Rosa a bright shade of red, Millicent looking down but not entirely hiding a smile. Floriane sighed; she supposed that was good. She had made it clear that Rosa had use of the dolls, but she was way too hesitant. Rosa would never achieve witch-mind at this rate; perhaps she would be happier being a doll. It wasn’t that unusual; the best witches knew how a doll thought, and maybe, in some cases, it was just a toss of the coin.

Rosa nodded shamefacedly at Floriane, returning to the counter and doing some pointless organising. Millicent began dusting the shelves in the first fitting room.

Floriane sometimes heard Rosa on her phone; to her roommate, or to Academy friends. She was talkative and funny; a far cry from the reserved girl she presented as here. Floriane supposed that was proper; your boss is not your friend. Still, sometime she wished—

The bell rang as a customer pushed the heavy door open. A few leaves came in with her.

“Analysis, Rosa,” said Floriane, quietly. 

“Er, witch,” said Rosa, a rather obvious deduction given the broad-brimmed hat. “New. Reasonably wealthy.”

Floriane was a bit surprised by the last deduction; the witch was wearing dyed wooden beads as jewellery, for Goddess’s sake, and her dress was layers of flowery fabric that looked very higgledy-piggledy to Floriane’s eye. But Rosa was correct; the witch’s handbag, while it looked like a generically ethnic affair that you could pick up in any market, bore the designer label of Prendre and therefore had cost at least one hundred times what it was worth. Her dress, too, was made of fine material and a high-quality cut, if zero actual fashion sense. “New” was probably true too: there was little of the witches aura about her, and her hat had a wooden wand tucked into the band. Floriane didn’t know any practicing witch that used a wand past a year or so out of Academy.

She moved forward to meet her.

“Welcome,” she said. “I am Miss Floriane Artemisia. Witch, third class.” She swept her hat off and performed an old-fashioned witches bow.

“Oh!” said the other witch, awkwardly taking her hat off, and doing a bow about which the best thing that could be said is that one was fairly sure it was a bow. “Um, Ophelia Cerridwyn. Witch, fifth class. Just graduated, in fact.”

“Ah,” said Floriane. “Congratulations. So would it be a first doll that you are looking for, Ms Cerridwyn?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. And call me Ophelia, please.”

“Of course, Ms Ophelia,” said Floriane. “You have come to the right place. Shall we go into the fitting room?” 

She led Ophelia towards fitting room one, shooing Millicent out of the way. The first fitting room looked somewhat like a library in a fine house; or, at least, like a theatrical set of such a library. Most of the books on the shelves were just the spines on hardboard, and the ‘window’ was glass against an interior wall, given a sunny glow with magic, a summer just out of reach. The comfortable sofa and chaise longue were real, though. Ophelia sat as directed; Rosa lurked outside the door, within hearing range.

Floriane ran through some boilerplate information, and then reached her point. “So, Ms Ophelia, the important thing is: what are you looking for in a doll?”

Ophelia shifted uncomfortably. “Um, well, I thought… to relax? That is why witches have dolls, isn’t it?”

“That is a complex question, Ms Ophelia,” said Floriane. “Witches have dolls for many reasons. Perhaps, originally, as targets for spell training. But, yes, certainly relaxation is a common reason.”

Ophelia nodded.

“So,” said Floriane. “Perhaps the question is: how should the doll help you to relax?”

“Well,” said Ophelia. “I like… songs and stories. Parlour games. Picnics?”

Floriane had no idea why she had made the last a question, but knew when someone was not telling the whole truth.

“Very good,” Floriane said. “We have dolls who will be excellent at those things.”

Ophelia nodded again.

“But,” continued Floriane, “many witches also use their dolls for other forms of relaxation. Using the doll’s physical skills. Do you understand me?”

Ophelia nodded, blushing.

“Therefore, it is useful for us to know your preferences in such matters,” concluded Floriane.

Ophelia blushed. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

Floriane had an idea; she took a business card and a fountain pen off the desk. “Perhaps you would be happier writing it down?”

Ophelia paused then nodded, taking the card and scrawling something on the blank backside. Floriane carefully took the card from the blushing witch.

“Ah,” she said. “No problem at all. Please review the brochure while I pick out our most suitable dolls.”

Floriane exited the fitting room and walked over to the counter, Rosa closely behind her.

“What did the card say?” whispered Rosa.

Floriane showed her the card. Rosa squinted at it. “Cauliflowers?” she asked.

Floriane sighed. “Cunnilingus,” she said. “The witch believes she is the first one to imagine a doll eating her out.”

Rosa blushed. Floriane shook her head; what was this generation of witches coming to?

“So,” said Floriane, “have a think about which dolls would be suitable. I will go and arrange refreshments.”

The kitchen was spotless. Having nothing to do, Dana was immobile, staring off into space. It snapped to alertness when Floriane approached. 

“Sandwiches, tea, and biscuits, doll,” instructed Floriane. “Use the good china.”

“Biscuits, Miss?” said Dana.

“Oh, cookies, I mean,” said Floriane. Even nearly a century hadn’t quite made her a native.

“Yes, Miss,” said Dana, with a little curtsey.

Floriane went out to the counter. “Well?” she said. Rosa was looking through the doll binder.

“I’m thinking Evie,” Rosa said.

“Good,” said Floriane.

“And Claire.”

“Indeed,” said Floriane.

“And then Sophia,” said Rosa. 

“No,” said Floriane.

“Why not?” asked Rosa. “Sophia seems… er… mouth focused.”

“Yes, but on penises,” said Floriane. “Fine for us, but Ms Cerridwyn is lacking in that department.”

“Oh, right,” Rosa said, blushing again. “Then who?”

“Irene, I think,” said Floriane. “And one more…”

“Alysa?” Rosa suggested.

Floriane shrugged. “A reasonable suggestion. Please go and fetch the dolls from the stockroom.”

Floriane returned to the kitchen; Dana was putting the last plate of sandwiches on the tea-tray.

“Well done, doll,” said Floriane. “Very speedily done.”

“Thank you, Miss,” said Dana. Floriane went to pick up the tea-tray. “Miss?” asked Dana.

“Yes, doll?” said Floriane. 

“May… if this one has done well… may it have a kiss?” it said.

Floriane stepped closer, and gave it a soft kiss on the mouth, and a hard pinch on the ass, just to remind it. Dana squealed.

Floriane took the tray through to the fitting room, placing it on a low table. “The dolls will be here shortly.”

She grimaced as the cargo elevator groaned and squeaked. But the dolls were already out of their cases, and Rosa led them into the room.

“Right, Ms Ophelia,” said Floriane. “Here are Evie, Claire, Irene, and Alysa. I am sure you will find one suitable for all your needs. We will leave you to see how you like them. Please ring the bell when you have completed your assessment. Take your time; Artemisia’s Doll Boutique will never rush a customer.”

Floriane closed the door on fitting room one, and both her and Rosa returned to the counter. Floriane picked up the paperwork again; Rosa just stared at the closed door.

Eventually, Floriane said, “You can scry in there if you wish. It’s in the small print.”

Rosa shook her head. “What do you suppose they are doing, Miss Artemisia?”

Floriane gave her a disbelieving look. “Well, after some cursory singing and parlour games,” she said. “I imagine she passed rather quickly onto the… cauliflower.”

Rosa blushed.

“You need to control your blushes, Prentice Rosa,” said Floriane. “An efficient witch does not blush.”

“You never blush, do you, Miss Artemisia?” asked Rosa.

“Rarely,” said Floriane, a small concession. “Blushing is a doll activity, usually caused by a conflict between its desires and purpose; between self and selflessness. Conversely, a witch should own her desires without shame.”

“I do try, Miss Artemisia,” said Rosa. “But I find it difficult.”

“I could help you,” said Floriane.

“Um, how?” said Rosa.

Floriane closed the gap between them. “I want you to tell me what might be going on in there,” she said. “A witch’s intuition, or guesswork. This will allow you to get used to discussing such things.” 

Rosa blushed, of course.

“Let us say that she is examining, say, Alysa,” said Floriane. “Explain to me what’s going on.”

“N-no, I can’t,” said Rosa.

Floriane stepped closer; close enough that she could sense Rosa’s heartbeat. “It is important to learn this,” she said. “Both for witchcraft and retail.” She put some of the witch’s timbre in her voice; officially, it had little effect on humans or lesser witches. In practice, it was sometimes useful.

There was a long pause. “She is probably stroking Alysa’s ears,” Rosa whispered.

“Yes, they are lovely and soft,” said Floriane. “Where is Alysa?”

“Um, kneeling, I suppose.”

“And what happens next?” said Floriane. 

“Um. Alysa nuzzles, I suppose. Puts its face… puts its face in the witch’s lap, and nuzzles.”

“Good. And then.”

“And she is still petting its ears,” said Rosa.

“And?”

“And,” said Rosa, “and… I can’t.”

“Do you think the witch probably raises her dress?” whispered Floriane.

“Yes,” Rosa squeaked.

“And she’s not wearing any panties, right?”

Rosa nodded.

“So Alysa nuzzles the pussy, would you say?” 

“Yes,” gulped Rosa.

“And the pussy is very ready, and the doll is lapping the witch's juices,” said Floriane. 

Rosa nodded.

“And the witch puts her hand behind Alysa’s ear, and roughly pulls the doll’s face closer.”

Rosa nodded urgently, bright red. 

“And Alysa’s tongue is working at the pussy. Licking the furrow, circling the clit. The witch is gasping. The doll’s tongue goes deep, into the sopping cunt of the witch, probing urgently.”

Floriane and Rosa heard some quiet moans through the door to fitting room one.

“Does that seem like it might be correct, Rosa?” whispered Floriane, standing close enough to feel her heat. Rosa nodded, turning her face away in an attempt to hide her redness. Floriane was filled with a sudden desire to turn Rosa’s face toward her, to see those plum lips part in surprise, in arousal. To kiss her, as gently and roughly as if she were a doll. She stepped away instead; she had to be professional.

“You should have Millicent or Dana attend to your erection,” Floriane said.

Rosa shook her head, even more embarrassed.

“It is your choice, of course,” Floriane said. “I will be in my office for a while.”

She went—leaving the door open—and caught up on the Journal of Applied Angelology for a while. Or at least tried, a lot of the words were not going in right. Rosa stood behind the counter, not doing anything, it seemed.

Floriane’s office was pleasant; it had to be, as it was sometimes used for discussions with customers. There was a real bookshelf, and an impressive desk and chair, as well as a sofa and seats for guests. It made Floriane feel like she had ‘made it’; a very dangerous sensation.

When Ophelia rang the bell, Floriane was at the door in an instant, Rosa close behind. Ophelia had cast the tersus cantrip, quite skillfully too, but one would have to be very foolish not to realise what had been going on. Even Ophelia didn’t seem too bothered anymore; she was sitting, slightly slumped, her eyes closed. The dolls were in various states of undress; judging from a few subtle signs, Ophelia had forgotten to mention a particular fondness for nipples. Floriane had assumed, though.

Evie and Alysa knelt on the carpet, limbs a little entangled, both resting a head on each of Ophelia’s thighs. She petted both of them; fingers running through Alysa’s soft red hair, and Evie’s curly blond locks. Claire and Irene were sitting on the other couch, kissing each other; first one would lean forward and kiss the other one on the mouth, then lean back, and the other would take a turn. Floriane assumed this was as instructed; it was a common way to keep spare dolls busy, and she didn’t recall Claire and Irene having much mutual attraction. Of course, depending on how long they had been kissing for, they might have developed such an attraction; dolls tended to. To be honest, humans probably would too, thought Floriane, and maybe witches. She wondered if Rosa would agree to an experiment, then shook her head. 

Ophelia opened her eyes; they were glistening.

“Oh, Miss Artemisia, it’s terrible!” said Ophelia. 

Floriane was surprised. “We can fetch—” she began, but Ophelia was continuing. 

“These two lovely dolls,” said Ophelia. “Sweet Alysa, and gentle Evie. How can I choose?”

“Ah,” said Floriane, relieved. “It is worth ma’am being a little objective about such things. Consider their skills, at singing and parlour games and… other things; surely one is slightly preferable?”

“Oh, but no, Miss Artemisia,” said Ophelia. “Their… their mouths, their lips, their tongues. Oh Goddess, their tongues…”

Floriane looked at the two dolls; it was impolite to cast an aura read in such a situation, but Floriane didn’t need to. From their relaxation, the way they leaned into the petting, the blush on their pseudo-skin; the dolls were very content.

Floriane sighed. Alysa had been feral when she had arrived; the nature witch who made her had met an unfortunate accident—namely marriage—with a forest spirit. And, of course, the nature witch had not properly prepared for this eventuality. Some humans found the witch’s hut, eventually, and Floriane had contacts in the Doll Reclamation agency. As well as being feral—and bitey—the doll did not respond well to punishment; strokes and cuddles were necessary. Evie, for her part, was lost to its first witch in a magical duel, and then won and lost through several more; a prize among the duelling community. Eventually, it ended up the possession of the era’s greatest magic duelist. But this witch only had time for duels, and Evie went completely unused; not even a kiss or a caress, and certainly not the doll’s proper usage. When a doll is unused for so long, it is gripped by a strange lackadaisicalness, and constant tears. Floriane bought it at auction—the duelist had tax problems—for a fair price, and soon had it back to normal.

“How much were you thinking of spending, Ms Ophelia?”

She dug a cloth bag out of her handbag and passed it to Floriane. She passed it to Rosa, who tipped it out on the table and counted jewels and gold coins.

“More than enough for either,” said Rosa. “But not enough for both.”

“Do not forget that Ms Ophelia should get the newly graduated discount,” Floriane said.

Rosa raised an eyebrow, presumably because there was no such discount. “No, ma’am, even then.”

“And the bulk purchase discount, of course,” said Floriane. 

“Miss Artemisia…” said Rosa, shaking her head.

“And the… um…” said Floriane.

Rosa sighed. “The Fall Sale,” she said, through gritted teeth. 

“Yes,” said Floriane. “The Autumn Sale. Our prices are falling like leaves. Incredible savings. Including the sale price for these two, Rosa…”

“Coincidentally, Ophelia has exactly the right amount,” said Rosa, sighing. 

“Really?” said Ophelia. “I can buy them both?”

“Yes, Ms Ophelia,” said Floriane. “You were lucky to catch us in a sale.”

“Especially as there are no signs or anything,” muttered Rosa.

“Come through to the counter, and I will do the paperwork,” said Floriane. “Rosa, would you prepare Alysa and Evie?”

Eventually, they got a tearful Ophelia and two bouncy dolls out of the shop. 

“Good luck, my dolls,” Floriane said, shutting the door.

Floriane and Rosa walked back to fitting room one. Claire and Irene were still kissing, lips a little chapped. Floriane ordered them to stop, and noted the new hesitation when they did so. It is so easy to get dolls to fall in love with each other, thought Floriane. They don’t fear love, it is as simple as a habit for them. She started to get the dolls dressed. Bad habit for witches though.

“Miss Artemisia,” said Rosa, helping her with Irene’s dress. “You can not be so generous with the doll’s prices.”

Floriane smiled. The one area where Rosa seemed to have a witches nature was in the matter of money. Rosa had experienced poverty, she knew, though Floriane had not enquired about the details.

“The two of them together means that, at any given time, one of them might get a chance to rest its mouth,” said Floriane. “It would be very cruel to put all that tonguework on a single doll.”

“But the price…”

“This may be a business,” Floriane said, “but I hope I have not fallen so far as to become a businesswoman.”

“If you keep doing buy-one-get-one-free on the dolls, this place will go bust, Miss Artemisia,” said Rosa, “and I won’t have a job.”

The two dolls looked at each other in alarm. “Sorry, Misses,” said Irene. “We will do better.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Floriane, kissing them both in turn. “I’m very proud of you. And I’m sure Rosa is too.”

The dolls turned towards her. “Yes,” said Rosa.

“Give them a kiss, Rosa,” Floriane whispered.

Rosa awkwardly kissed them. 

“And anyway, we have plenty of cash in reserve,” said Floriane. “Plus any sensible business would be happy to employ you.”

Rosa hmphed. “I don’t think so. And I don’t want a sensible business. I mean… I don’t want to work for anyone else.”

Floriane was pleased. “I think sometimes I am too hard on you,” she said, softly, “for not thinking like a witch yet, even though you are just a trainee.”

“No,” Rosa said. “You’re just teaching me. I don’t mind you getting, um, being hard on me.”

Floriane and Rosa put the dolls back in their boxes, and—with Dana and Millicent—ate the remaining sandwiches, as it was long past lunchtime.

Floriane spent a couple of hours getting Evie and Alysa’s paperwork for the various doll agencies right. Rosa always suggested that it would be faster to get a computer for these things; that just because the agencies accepted paper flimsies, that didn’t mean it was the preferred method. She was probably right, Floriane knew, but she disliked the idea of being a novice again. Rosa would probably think me an idiot, she reckoned, and she didn’t want that.

She was surprised when she felt magic afoot. Floriane focused her arcane senses and deployed protective wards. A major spell, focused nearby, on the street not the store. An apportation! Floriane tried to tell if it had any sign of its caster.

She realised that the shop bell had rang again, and quickly left her office. She was just in time to see Rosa perform a fair bow and greeting. 

“Mrs Marlinspike!” called Floriane. “Nice to see you again.” 

The witch bowed, small motes of apportation magic falling off and fading. “Lady Veronika Marlinspike. Witch, second class. I am pleased you remember me, Floriane.”

“Miss Artemisia never forgets a visitor,” said Rosa, a touch defensively. 

“On the contrary,” said Floriane. “I seem to have missed our guest being awarded a title.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Veronika. “If you remember, I was leaving on court business. It went… rather well.”

Veronika was dressed in black; mourning, she said, for her dead wife. No one could remember her having a wife, but one wouldn’t argue with a woman in grief. At any rate, it was close-cut velvet and leather, finely tailored, a little uncomfortable looking. Black tights and stilettos. A thin veil hung from her wide witch’s hat; it didn’t really hide her face—one could see the emerald flash of eye, and the poison green of lipstick. A silver chain, surprisingly bright, held up a tiny black handbag. A wide, asymmetrical collar offered the only piece of unhidden skin; from collarbone to neck, the edges of the shoulder. It was pale enough that blue veins shone through it. Floriane realised that she had been staring.

“And your doll, Samantha, is performing well?” Floriane asked.

“Excellently, yes,” Veronika said. “You gave very good advice; it was adventuresome enough to stand up to the rigours of travelling life. And the rigours of its witch.” She nodded towards Rosa. “You have taken on an apprentice?”

“Yes,” said Floriane. “Rosa is invaluable.”

“Is she indeed?” Veronika looked at Rosa, up and down without shame. “I see. It is a pity that only the dolls are for sale here. But I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

Floriane and Rosa started speaking, but Veronika cut across them.

“Anyway,” she said. “Now that I am more settled, I am minded to take on another doll for my collection. From my favourite boutique, of course. Do you remember my requirements?”

“I do, Lady Marlinspike,” said Floriane. “But perhaps you could recap for the benefit of my apprentice? She has an excellent eye for suitable dolls.”

“A quick study for her mistress, eh?” said Veronika. “Oh, and please call me Veronika. Both of you.” She looked at Rosa again. “My requirements are like so: I want dolls who take punishment well; who are aroused even as they scream or gasp or beg. Dolls who get wet, or hard, or soft and squidgy when they hear the thwack of a riding crop on skin, even if it is their own skin. Dolls who will frantically kiss your hand, or your foot, despite the fact that you have edged them cruelly, for hours. I don’t mind bratty dolls, as long as they can cry prettily. And dolls that, at the end of all that, will still cuddle you, as you magic away their welts. You know what I mean, don’t you, Floriane?”

“I remember, yes,” said Floriane. 

Veronika began walking towards fitting room two. “I presume in here? Please have the dolls undressed for me; I have little patience for buttons. In fact, Floriane, can you or your apprentice help me undress?”

“The dolls will help,” said Floriane, firmly but not entirely without regret. 

Fitting room two was more general purpose than fitting room one; which meant it was a little incoherent. It resembled a workshop, kind of; solid tables and desks lined up, obscure equipment mounted on the wall. An armchair stood—incongruously—at the head of the room. The only other seat were box-like benches, topped with leather. The sides of the room were wood-panelled, but most of the panels swung open to reveal tools, and toys, rope and straps.

“You’ve improved it a little since last time,” observed Veronika. “Very nice. I must show you the dungeon in my new house, Floriane. You would enjoy it; we share similar tastes. And Rosa, I’m sure we could find a place for you.”

“I will leave you to read the brochure while we organise the dolls,” Floriane said. “Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

Veronika nodded and arranged herself on the armchair, crossing her legs.

Floriane and Rosa retreated behind the counter. 

“I don’t like her,” whispered Rosa.

“That is neither here nor there, Rosa,” said Floriane. “She is a customer and a witch. Even better, she knows what she wants. I find her quite refreshing.”

“You would,” Rosa muttered. “She doesn’t look at you as if she’s imagining you trussed up.”

Floriane got a sudden image of Rosa tied up, wriggling on the floor. She tamped down on her smile. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You are a trainee witch. And anyway, I will look after you. No-one else will… No-one will tie you up.”

A little embarrassed by her slip, Floriane quickly ducked into the kitchen. She instructed Dana to take a bottle of champagne and glasses to their guest.

Rosa was consulting the binder when Floriane emerged.

“Well,” said Floriane, “what dolls do you reckon?”

“Um, Sasha?” Rosa said.

“Excellent, yes.”

“Athena?”

“Correct. Well done.”

“Um, Emily?”

“Interesting. But yes, I can see that working.”

“I don’t know which other one though,” said Rosa.

“Millicent,” said Floriane. 

“Yes, Miss?” said Millicent, who was chasing leaves around the shop floor.

“Come over here and undress,” instructed Floriane. “Rosa, will you get the others? I had better check on our guest.”

Despite her complaints about buttons, Veronika had managed to disrobe; presumably through magic, as there was no sign of her clothes anywhere. She was wearing a leather basque, but it didn’t rise high enough to hide her breasts, nor did it do anything to hide her witchcock, which was lying—unerect but somehow insouciant—on her thigh. Floriane avoided looking directly at her breasts; her nipples were pierced, but more importantly she had a row of sigils tattooed around each areola. Floriane was too much of a witch to read another’s intimate sigils without better protection. 

Veronika raised her glass to Floriane. “I do enjoy coming here,” she said. “It was very tiresome being out of the country for so long.”

She had Dana on hands and knees by the side of the chair; the tray with the champagne bottle was on the doll’s back.

“Oh,” said Veronika, following Floriane’s glance. “I needed a table.”

“My apologies,” said Floriane, twirling a hand to levitate a bench towards the armchair. She transferred the tray and the champagne over to the bench, and instructed Dana to go back to the kitchen.

“You’re no fun,” Veronika said. “Its fear was lovely.”

“Not your type,” said Floriane. 

“As a participant? No. Too anxious,” said Veronika. “As a nervous audience, though? Mmm.” Veronika uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

The noise of the cargo elevator meant that the dolls were here, and Rosa soon shepherded them in. They were naked, and blushing. 

“Hands by your sides,” said Floriane, who didn’t want any of the dolls embarrassing her by trying to cover themselves. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Veronika. “You have manacles in one of these cupboards, don’t you?”

Floriane walked over and tapped one of the wooden panels.

“Excellent,” said Veronika. She twitched her hands and cast an aura read on the dolls. She considered them for a moment. “Very nice. They are all excited, as well as fearful. I do enjoy a doll begging you to stop, when you can both see how much it wants you to continue.”

“This is—” began Floriane. 

“Oh, don’t worry about names until I purchase one,” said Veronika. “Doll names are one of those things I disapprove of, even while I acknowledge their utility.”

“Well, in that case, we will leave you to it,” said Floriane. “Just ring the bell when—”

“I remember,” said Veronika. “But, Floriane, won’t you join me? The afternoon is getting late, and with two of us it would be a lot faster—and more fun—to put these dolls to the test.”

“Unfortunately, that would be against professional ethics,” said Floriane. 

“Oh fine,” said Veronika. “I suppose the same rule applies to your assistant? I could teach her—”

“Yes, professional ethics,” said Floriane. In truth, she was sure Rosa could learn a lot from Veronika, maybe too much. And, besides, if anyone was going to instruct Rosa, it would be her, Floriane thought.

“Oh, well in that case,” said Veronika, “please please remember to scry on me. Have to ensure I don’t get too rough, after all. Plus, I adore being watched. When I was abroad, I used to run exclusive salons where I would perform a tableau vivant with dolls. Always very popular, I intend to set up something similar here. Please say you will attend, Floriane? Bring Rosa as a… guest.” 

“Our work keeps us busy,” said Floriane. “But I will consult my diary, of course.”

Veronika smiled. “Anyone would think you were scared, Floriane Artemisia, witch, third class. Afraid of enjoying yourself?”

“Just cautious, Lady Veronika Marlinspike,” said Floriane. “Just cautious.”

They left Veronika in fitting room two and retreated to the counter.

“This is a splendid opportunity to practise your scrying,” Floriane said.

“Do we have to?” said Rosa.

“Yes. She may well test us,” said Floriane. “She may even be able to detect it. And we have a duty to look after the dolls.”

“Ugh,” said Rosa.

“You do not find her attractive, Rosa?”

Rosa paused. “Well, obviously, she is attractive. Like y—… like many witches,” she said. “But I… I could barely speak, her sitting there all naked. Regal. Like she owned the place. It’s your shop. She shouldn’t have been so… so… dominating.”

“A witch,” said Floriane, “is clothed in power.” She touched Rosa’s hand to indicate the urgency of her point. “That is what is important; more than wands, or clothes, or even our hats. Circumstances may strip us of these things, and yet we are still the most powerful person in the room. A true witch may stand naked before armies, before nobility, before a mob; and they will all fall to their knees, and beg for her forgiveness.” Floriane was gripping Rosa’s hand; she let go, hurriedly. “We should also cast a warding against her sigils,” she said. “They are relatively potent, for the unwary.”

Rosa looked at her. “So, we have to watch her?”

“You have to watch her,” corrected Floriane, putting some witch’s timbre into her voice. “I have paperwork to attend to.”

Rosa gave her a sceptical look, sighed, and cast a scrying spell. An Orb of Visions formed; it was competent enough. Floriane tweaked the arcane matrix slightly, to remove the chromatic aberration. 

Veronika was still sitting in the armchair; she looked up and smiled as the vision burst into existence. Floriane was impressed, detecting a scrying was difficult.

The dolls were putting manacles on each other; their aura showing escalating fear and excitement.

“You should run a claritas ward, to protect yourself from her sigils,” Floriane advised. “They will affect dolls, and humans, more than witches, but don’t take any chances.”

“Around her… on her breasts, you mean?”

“Yes,” said Floriane. “And also above her witchcock.”

“Can you read them?” asked Rosa.

“Yes, after casting claritas on myself, I safely can,” said Floriane. “Like most sigils, they are more effective on the mind of the non-reader, going directly—if vaguely—to their subconscious. The sigils are about worship and submission, selfless love and surrender.”

“Oh,” said Rosa, muttering the claritas ward under her breath. 

“The effect is fairly limited,” explained Floriane. “There are good reasons not to have, say, a seal of infernal command tattooed on your body. These are only slightly more effective than the sigils on my blouse.”

“On your blouse?”

“In the lines,” Floriane explained. 

Rosa lent forward, to a couple of inches away from the blouse. “Professional retail witch?” she read, sounding a little disappointed.

“Exactly,” said Floriane. “Make sure people get the right impression.”

“Have you got any tattoos?” asked Rosa, suddenly. 

“Hardly an appropriate question, Prentice Rosa,” Floriane said, smiling. “But no.” She had used to have, not a tattoo, but a mark; long erased now.

“Is she right, though?” asked Rosa. “Are you really like her? In… tastes, I mean?”

“Again, not really appropriate, Rosa,” Floriane said.

Rosa nodded. “Sorry.”

“She’s mostly right,” Floriane said. “I don’t enjoy giving out pain as much. But I like restraints, physical or mental. I like knowing I have power, and seeing a doll, or a girl, powerless against me. Gasping in surrender. Does that answer your question, Rosa?”

“Y-yes, Miss Artemisia.”

There was a thwack from the scrying orb, loud enough to grab their attention. Looking at the aura reader, however, Sasha was enjoying the pain.

“Right,” Floriane said. “Paperwork calls. Enjoy the scrying.”

Floriane left the door of her office open and got on with some paperwork that would be needed at some point. She kept an eye on Rosa, to make sure she was watching the scrying orb. Floriane hoped this might make Rosa a bit more witch-minded. She certainly seemed to get interested in it, and also rather fidgety. 

Eventually Floriane put her paperwork away, and walked out to the counter.

“How is it going, apprentice?” said Floriane.

“Miss Artemisia, can you watch the orb for a bit?” Rosa asked.

Floriane supposed that was only fair, and nodded.

Rosa dashed over to the kitchen. “Dana,” she shouted, and pulling the doll by its wrist, led it across to Floriane’s office and slammed the door. Floriane chuckled; that seemed to be going to plan. 

Watching the scrying though, it made sense. Veronika was like a pale demon, moving between writhing bodies. Punishing, rewarding, tasting, inserting. Like a conductor of an orchestra of dolls, adjusting their gasps and pleas. It was… compelling. It was also, at least partially, a performance; another area where her tastes and Marlinspike’s did not align.

After a while, Floriane’s office door opened, and Rosa and Dana came out. Dana trotted off to the kitchen, smiling. Rosa was beetroot-coloured again.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Why?” said Floriane, exasperated. “You can and should use the dolls whenever you like. It’s much better than trying to go about retail work when you are distracted and aroused. This is one of the primary functions of dolls; they become unbalanced if they are not used. You are a trainee witch; why deny yourself?”

“It’s embarrassing,” said Rosa. “I grew up among humans; it’s embarrassing. I know I’ve got to overcome that to become a witch, but…”

“Would it help if we shared a doll?” asked Floriane. “We could close for lunch tomorrow, and select—”

“No,” shouted Rosa. “I mean… no, that would be even more… confusing, Miss Artemisia. I think, for now.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” Floriane said. Truth be told, she was rather afraid she would also find it distracting. But she would help Rosa whatever the cost.

“Oh, I think she’s done,” said Rosa.

“Thankfully,” Floriane said. “I have heard of the puissance of second class witches, but Veronika really is remarkable. Mind you, it was the same last time, and I didn’t have an apprentice then.”

“Did you watch the scrying orb yourself?”

“Oh, indeed,” said Floriane. “Thankfully, I had a doll that was very very good at handjobs.”

Rosa was blushing again, as the bell went off. 

The scene inside fitting room two was not a surprise, since they had watched it on the orb. No tersus spell had been cast, but Veronika had found time to get dressed; she was back in the costume she had arrived in, not a hair out of place. She had produced one of those silly ‘vapes’ from somewhere, and was currently blowing out greenish steam. Technically, this was against the rules, but Floriane did not want the argument; it was better than the kiseru pipe she had smoked last time.

“This one,” Veronika said, gesturing with the vape at the closest table. 

The doll she had indicated was strapped to the table, face down, still shaking, red marks over its back and bottom. And a heck of a mess around its bottom, at least until Rosa performed a hurried tersus spell. Its aura was hard to describe, but bliss was close enough. 

“Athena,” said Floriane. 

“Really?” said Veronika, bursting into a sharp laugh. “Excellent. It can think about its goddess name, while I degrade it, slowly, into a quivering mass of humiliation.”

She blew out another plume of steam. The other dolls were on a different table, tied together; Sasha sandwiched between Emily and Millicent. There was a lot of writhing; Emily and Millicent had evidently been instructed to be rough. Sasha was moaning silently, eyes glazed in exhaustion. Floriane nodded as Rosa stopped them.

“Fine choices all, though: thank you,” said Veronika. “Just as I would expect from my favourite boutique.”

“As I say, the picks are largely Rosa’s choice,” said Floriane. 

“Oh yes,” said Veronika. “Well, young Rosa, your mistress has obviously taught you well. Dolls, say thank you to Miss Rosa.”

The “Thank you, Miss Rosa” that was occasioned was quite raggedy.

“I’m not surprised though,” Veronika continued. “Floriane is very clever, and knows when to use a carrot and when to use a stick.” 

“Miss Artemisia is very good,” Rosa said.

“I bet,” Veronika said. “Did the two of you have fun huddled closely around the orb? I do hope so.”

“Again,” said Floriane. “I left much of that to Rosa.”

“Oh, you wound me, Floriane,” she said, laughing. “Tell me Rosa; which of the dolls did you most wish to be?”

“She is a witch in training,” said Floriane. “Obviously, she identified with the excellent witch.”

“Really, Rosa?” said Veronika. “You were the tightener of knots, not the one bound and trembling? The flogger rather than the flogged? The inserter, rather—”

“Yes,” said Rosa

“I see,” Veronika said. 

She got a cheque book out of her tiny bag.

“I assume that this will be sufficient for the doll,” Veronika said, writing down about half as much again as Floriane was going to ask for.

“Very generous, Veronika,” said Floriane, accepting the cheque.

“Well, apart from paying for your ungrudging time,” said Veronika. “I am including its box and delivery in that.”

Veronika stood and reached into her bag, presenting a business card to Floriane. 

“My address is on there,” Veronika said. “And my personal phone number. Will you be making the delivery yourself, Floriane?”

“We have a trusted courier for that,” said Rosa, quickly.

“Indeed,” said Floriane. 

“A pity,” said Veronika. “Even so, you are quite welcome to visit, anytime. I promise you that my household would be very welcoming for someone of your capabilities. And as for you, Rosa; I daresay we can find something extremely captivating for you. Right, I have taken up enough of your time; I will be on my way.”

Floriane accompanied her to the door. It was twilight outside now, and it had started to rain.

“Floriane, your apprentice,” said Veronika, quietly, but not so quiet that Rosa could not hear. “Have you considered making her into a doll? She has the tendency, and you know the rituals. You would both appreciate it.”

“I am a trainee witch!” snapped Rosa.

“My apologies, of course,” said Veronika, unapologetically. “Good day, my fellow witches.” With another bow, she left.

Floriane turned the sign to “Closed” and leant back against the door for a moment. She walked back to the counter and exchanged her shoes for the rabbit slippers.

“Rosa, have you got a course tonight?” said Floriane. “You can go if you want.”

“Not tonight, Miss Artemisia,” said Rosa. “It’s movie night with my roommate, but not until later, so I’ll stay and help you with the dolls.”

“What film are you watching?” asked Floriane 

“My choice, Combat-dolls versus Hellhounds 3,” Rosa said. “Have you seen it?”

“No, I am afraid not,” said Floriane. The last time she had watched a film it was in black and white.

It took a while to put the dolls away; charms to clean, mend welts and cure soreness. Getting them dressed again, and reassuring them with kisses. They worked quietly, together. 

Sasha, Emily, Millicent and Dana were taken upstairs and settled in their boxes. They brought Athena’s box down, and left it by the counter for delivery tomorrow. Finally, Willow was shifted to the stockroom; thankfully the sales meant there was plenty of room.

Floriane sighed, thinking about the sales paperwork she had still to complete. 

“Lady Marlinspike only had a glass of champagne,” she said. “Should we finish off the bottle?”

Rosa paused.

“I mean, three sales in one day is unusual isn’t it?” said Floriane. “So we might as well celebrate.”

Rosa fiddled with a box’s hasp.

“Oh, I mean, you probably have things to do,” said Floriane. “You don’t want to hang out with your decrepit boss.”

“You’re not decrepit!” said Rosa. “It’s just that… it’s unusual for you. You’re usually so professional it’s intimidating.”

“I apologise, Rosa,” Floriane said. “It is important that I stay professional. I sometimes feel as if… no, it’s not important. Will you drink with me?”

Rosa paused again, then said “Of course, Miss Artemisia.”

“And for the Goddess’s sake,” said Floriane, “call me Floriane.”

“... Floriane,” said Rosa, experimentally. 

“Thank you,” said Floriane. “Let’s take it into my office, then.”

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, and Floriane poured them both a glass of—slightly flat—champagne. 

“To sales, and an excellent assistant,” said Floriane, and they both toasted.

“Do you really feel that, Miss… Floriane?” asked Rosa. “That I’m a good assistant?” 

“Of course!”

“But… but I blush, and I get embarrassed by using dolls, and… and I don’t always think like a witch,” Rosa said.

“True,” said Floriane. “But those are minor things that you will overcome with time.”

“Lady Marlinspike thought I should become a doll,” said Rosa, sipping her champagne.

“She was just teasing,” said Floriane.

“You sometimes use the witch’s voice on me…” 

“Accidentally, I’m sure,” said Floriane, not quite truthfully. “And you can detect it.”

“But… I don’t mind doing what you say,” Rosa said.

“Good, yes, I am the supervisor,” said Floriane, “you are the assistant. Look, anyway, it only really works on dolls; on humans and witches its effects are very slight.”

“So… you don’t think that I’m becoming a doll?”

“You know better than that,” said Floriane. “People don’t just become dolls. There are several rituals, and plenty of forms. This is not mediaeval times where some bad witch may swoop down, carry you off, mark you, and strip your personality down without even a by your leave.”

“I know,” said Rosa. “But… but occasionally that sounds sort of nice. No embarrassment. No family drama. No decisions. Someone else taking charge. It feels… peaceful. Just occasionally, I mean.” She gulped at her glass.

“Of course,” Floriane said. “I don’t think there is a competent witch that hasn’t at some point thought that. We—witches—have to understand the nature of dolls. Their wonder, in fact.” 

“Really?” said Rosa. “So, did you, er, consider it? Becoming a doll.” 

Floriane took a sip of champagne. She weighed her words; she did not want to lie to Rosa, but nor was complete honesty possible. “I wrestled with the idea of being a doll for way too long, in my youth. But I found that I liked control a little too much. Doll or bad witch was certainly a question I had to answer for myself.”

“You’re not a bad witch!” exclaimed Rosa.

Floriane got a sudden flash; someone else’s blood, a sliver of glass, her hands. “I am older than I look,” she said, quietly. “And much less good.”

“Nonsense,” exclaimed Rosa. “You are so smart, and professional, and pretty. Um, I mean…” She finished her glass.

“Thank you, Rosa,” said Floriane, pressing her hand. “I think the tiredness and the alcohol must be getting to me.”

“It’s alright if you’re not professional all the time,” said Rosa. “After closing time, we could just… hang out. You know, like friends. As friends.”

“I would like that,” said Floriane. 

“Right. Is there more in that bottle?” said Rosa.

“About another glass,” said Floriane. “You take it; I’m doing okay on this one.”

Rosa tipped the bottle, getting almost a glass full, which she promptly half drained.

“So,” she said. “Veronika said you knew the rituals, for a doll, I mean.”

“In theory,” Floriane said. “Third class witch stuff. As I say, there is a lot of bureaucracy these days. Not worth the hassle.”

“Oh, right,” said Rosa.

“Of course, if you ever made the decision that you did want to become a doll,” said Floriane, “I’d hit the textbooks for you.”

“Really?” said Rosa. “I mean, I’m not going to, of course, but that’s nice.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, you’d probably sell doll me to a lower-end store,” said Rosa.

“Are you joking?” said Floriane. “You belong in the highest of boutiques. But, also, I wouldn’t sell you.”

“Oh?” said Rosa, taking another gulp of champagne. “What would… why not?”

“You are an excellent assistant,” Floriane said, which was one of the reasons. 

“Oh, right,” said Rosa. “I thought… Anyway, one of the things that I don’t like is being an ‘it’; I don’t know how it was for you, but I had to fight for she/her.”

“Similar, sort of, before I became a witch,” said Floriane. There were, technically, no trans witches, or cis witches. No one was born a witch, and all witches remade themselves; perhaps some more than others. Really, you could argue that all witches were trans, but some ancient and rich witches got cross if you said that. “But maybe not having to fight is a reason some dolls chose that path?”

“Oh goddess, I can see why that is tempting,” said Rosa.

Floriane sipped her champagne. 

“I’m not thinking about it,” said Rosa. “But I am worried that I obey the witch’s voice. That must mean something.”

“Coincidence,” said Floriane. “It was something you would do, anyway.”

Rosa looked sceptical. “Give me an order,” she said.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Just something simple and harmless,” said Rosa. “Please?”

Floriane deliberately didn’t look at her puppy-dog eyes.

“Fine,” she said, then loaded her voice with timbre. “Finish your drink.”

She downed the remains of her glass, then set it on the side table. “No,” she said, “too easy, I was going to do that, anyway. Something else.”

“Like what?” 

“I dunno,” said Rosa.

“Make a silly face,” said Floriane, in the witch’s voice.

Rose stuck out her tongue and went cross-eyed. Floriane had a sudden impulse to grab her tongue, but resisted.

“No,” Rosa said. “I just did it because it’s fun. Making silly faces at your boss is fun. It needs to be something I want to resist.”

Floriane shook her head. “Just be happy; you only obey witch-commands you would have, anyway.”

“No,” she said. She paused and went bright red.

“Oh Goddess,” muttered Floriane. 

“It should be something I’m embarrassed by,” Rosa said, looking down. “So that I can properly resist, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good—”

“Ask me to take my top off,” said Rosa, in high-pitched embarrassment. 

“No,” said Floriane, “that would be—”

“Don’t you want to see?” said Rosa. “Am I that ugly?”

“No, of course you’re not.”

“Well then,” said Rosa, sounding sensible but still bright red. “If you win: you get an eyeful of me in my bra. You’re a witch surrounded by dolls; a bit of mid-price bra is nothing to you. And if I win; then great, I am proof against witch’s voice. It’s win-win.”

“Fine,” said Floriane. “Remove your top.”

“In the witch’s voice!”

Floriane sighed. “You’re sure?” she asked. Rosa nodded.

Floriane put her glass on the edge of the desk. “Remove your top,” she said, witch’s timbre ringing out.

Rosa was still, her hands balled up at her sides. “See, easy,” said Rosa. “No bra for you, Miss Ar—” She interrupted herself by pulling her tee-shirt—and mesh underlayer—off over her head.

Floriane looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen lovely curves in a lacy bra, little pink nipples just visible.

“Damn. I thought I had it. Damn,” said Rosa. Floriane waited for her to put her top back on.

“Well,” Rosa said, impatiently. “Look, will you! How am I supposed to learn if you don’t do the punishment?” She shuffled closer on the sofa.

Floriane looked again, although the first glimpse had been burned into her mind. Rosa’s blush reached down to her décolletage. She had a pair of moles—beauty marks—near her collarbone; they should be kissed, thought Floriane. She followed the blush down to the cleavage, and along the inside of a breast. Floriane’s hand involuntarily moved, no more than a twitch, as her eyes followed the line and estimated—by eye—the feel and heaviness of it.

“Oh, right, sure,” said Rosa. “I suppose a bit of manhandling, or witch-handling, I mean, would teach me a lesson. Go on then.”

“No, Rosa, I’m sorry—”

Rosa grabbed Floriane’s hand, and held it to one of her breasts, pressing it against the lacy bra material. Floriane found her fingers pressing, a tiny massage into lovely flesh. She looked up, and was surprised to find Rosa looking at her, blushing across her nose and cheeks.

Floriane suddenly shook her head and snatched her hand back. “I’m sorry—”

“Why?” said Rosa. “You wanted me to stop blushing. I wanted to be immune to witch-voice. I mean, okay, I failed. But we were along the right lines, I can tell. Just need practice.”

“No—”

“What, is it so horrible for you when I fail?” said Rosa. “It didn’t seem that it was.”

“No,” said Floriane. “It’s…” Just that she was worried about losing control. She shrugged. 

“Look, we’re alright, Floriane,” said Rosa. “Just friends; hanging out, helping each other, perhaps embarrassing each other, a bit. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” said Floriane; uncertainly. “I haven’t had many friends but…”

“This is all normal,” said Rosa. “Now, we need to find something else to test me with. For the witch-voice. Something a bit embarrassing.”

“Um,” said Floriane. She wasn’t used to feeling off-balance like this. Maybe Rosa had more witch-mind than she thought.

Rosa grabbed a cushion from the sofa, and threw it on the floor, at Floriane’s rabbit-slippered feet. “Tell me to kneel,” she said.

“Rosa, no.”

“Gosh, it’s just kneeling,” said Rosa. “I don’t know where your mind is going. It’s just a bit embarrassing; like you’re a queen or something.”

“Really?” said Floriane. 

“Just give the command, Floriane.”

“Kneel—”

“In the witch-voice!” said Rosa.

“Kneel before me,” said Floriane, with a bit of witch’s voice. Actually, more than she planned.

“Okay,” said Rosa. “Got to stay focused.” She shifted her position on the sofa. “I’m comfortable here, why would I go and kneel?” She put her hand on Floriane’s knee, flexing and grasping. “But I keep thinking that you want me to.”

I do, thought Floriane, carefully not speaking. 

“That cushion does look pretty comfy,” Rosa said, still grasping Floriane’s knee. “No, I will resist. I can do this.”

Floriane looked at her again, eyes meeting. A flash of something pleading in Rosa’s eyes; Floriane didn’t know what her own eyes were saying.

Rosa moved, getting off the sofa, and kneeling in front of Floriane; somehow graceful and clumsy at the same time.

They sat in a silent tableau for a moment. 

“Damn,” Rosa said. “We should have started a stopwatch. I was doing okay for a while.”

Floriane was silent, looking down at Rosa’s face, her eyes looking up. Floriane imagining stroking a cheek, then…

“Well, what are you going to do to embarrass me?” said Rosa.

“Don’t—” murmured Floriane. 

Rosa placed a hand on each of Floriane’s knees; and drew them apart, pleats unfolding in the skirt.

“Rosa—” said Floriane.

“I think,” said Rosa. “A good punishment for me would be… to kiss… your witchcock. See how red even the words are making me go?”

Floriane’s witchcock was hard, tenting her skirt. She tried to get control, a witch's control over her own body, but the cantrips would not come to mind.

“Oh my Goddess,” said Rosa. “Are you blushing, Miss Artemisia?”

Floriane could feel herself going red; hot pinpricks across her skin. The embarrassment of blushing made it worse. For the Goddess’s sake, Floriane, she thought, are you a trainee witch? Are you a fresh doll?

“This afternoon you invited me to share a doll with you,” said Rosa. “Why would you be embarrassed now?”

“That was normal doll retail stuff; testing the stock together,” Floriane said. And besides, I knew you wouldn’t agree.

Rosa was carefully pushing back the skirt.

“I guess,” said Rosa, quietly, “I might have been too jealous of the doll.”

Floriane’s witchcock popped free of her skirt. 

“Rosa—” 

“It’s just a little kiss between friends, Floriane,” said Rosa. “It looks like it could use a kiss, straining upwards, like a flower to the sun. So pretty.”

Rosa shuffled slightly closer. “Or order me to leave. You won’t even have to use the voice. Do you want me to go, Floriane?”

“No,” Floriane said, quietly. “No. But I’m worried that I’ll lose control.”

Rosa gently grasped the witchcock in her hands, and kissed the tip. Once, then again.

“So lose control,” Rosa said, kissing again. “Do you think I’m expecting you to be, um, appropriate and professional?” She ran her tongue across the head.

Floriane shuffled forward. “Rosa…” she said.

Rosa picked up one of Floriane’s hands and placed it on the back of her head.

“Miss Artemisia,” Rosa said, carefully. “I want you to facefuck me. Use me like a doll. Take my mouth like it belongs—mmph.”

Rosa gleefully sucked on the head of the witchcock. Floriane pulled her closer, her hand curling into Rosa’s hair. Rosa took the cock in; Floriane imagined her lipstick on the side of the shaft. She closed her eyes, enjoying Rosa’s mouth, enjoying the close, warm space that enveloped her; saliva and active tongue, the occasional touch of teeth.

Floriane started to thrust; Rosa responded with wet noises, muffled moans, and occasional gags, as Floriane found her depth and adjusted her speed.

“Rosa…” murmured Floriane. “My Rosa…”

It did not take long, particularly by witch’s standards. Floriane finished, overtaken by orgasm; a lightness in her head, heaviness and then an emptiness in her body. Rosa swallowed some, coughing and choking on the rest. Floriane stroked her head.

“I’m sorry, Rosa,” said Floriane. 

Rosa carefully licked the detumescing cock, several times, and then looked up. Her mascara had run, and her lipstick was smudged. Her blush was almost gone though; a subtle pinkness on her cheeks and nose.

“Why?” she said; eyes sparkling. “That was what I wanted. That was what you wanted.”

Rosa took one of Floriane’s hands and delicately kissed the pad of her thumb. 

“I’m your boss,” Floriane said. “I don’t want things to be awkward for you. Heck, I don’t want things to be awkward for me. What if I have to tell you off again?”

Rosa kissed her palm.

“Goddess,” said Rosa. “You don’t think I didn’t think about being throatfucked, or just flung over the counter and my butt taken, every time you told me off? Is it really more awkward if we’re both thinking that?”

“I was already thinking that,” said Floriane, dourly. “But, yes, knowing we’re both thinking it does make it awkward.” 

Rosa climbed up on the sofa next to Floriane. She leaned across her and drank the rest of Floriane’s champagne. 

“Awkward because you might just close the shop and fuck me?” Rosa asked. “Because I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Yes,” said Floriane. “Well, it’s very unprofessional not sticking to advertised opening and closing times.”

“Your professionalism is just going to fucking edge us, isn’t it?” said Rosa, with a theatrical sigh. 

“Yes,” said Floriane. “Seriously, though, I could just kiss you and erase the memories. Might be simpler.”

“I’ll take half that deal,” said Rosa.

“What?”

“Kiss me, idiot,” said Rosa. “Leave the memories.”

They kissed; short but intense, lips sliding over lips.

“It won’t be that different, Floriane,” Rosa said. “You will teach me to be less embarrassed, and to be immune to the voice of witches. You’ll discipline me when I need it. All very professional.”

They kissed again, for longer this time. Open mouths, licking and nibbling each other, tongues colliding.

“And what,” said Floriane, when they broke off. “If I lose control, hold you down, and fuck you senseless?”

“Then that will be an important glimpse into the doll mindset for me,” she said. “If it happens a few times it might even persuade me.”

They kissed again, and again, as the autumn rain fell. 

“Oops,” said Rosa, reluctantly pulling back. “Sorry, but I have to go. Movie night. Those combat-dolls won’t wait.” 

She stood, pulled her top on, and cast the tersus charm.

Floriane stood as well, a bit uncertain.

“Your makeup…” said Floriane, gesturing to her face. “A little charm—”

“I wish I could leave it,” said Rosa. “My roommate had me top-envious for most of last year; she was semi-dating this butch chef. A femme witch outranks that. She’d be so jealous if I showed her my ruined mascara. But do your spell.”

Floriane ran her fingers over Rosa’s face, feeling her soft warmth and lovely contours. She cast a more complex variant of tersus to clean off the cosmetics. Then a fallax charm on top, to give the appearance of fresh makeup. It felt surprisingly intimate to Floriane, considering that her witchcock had just been in Rosa's mouth. She finished with a small kiss, and Rosa responded; they kissed several times until Rosa pulled away.

“Wow,” said Rosa. She had moved to check out her face in the darkened window. “Very neat. Is this how come your makeup is always flawless?”

“Mine is like a doll’s,” Floriane said. “Magically permanent, mostly.”

“Oh Goddess, the reasons are piling up.” 

They walked out to the entry hall. Rosa retrieved some shapeless waterproofs from the coat rack and began climbing into them.

“Are you sure you will be alright on the broom?” asked Floriane. “You’ve had a lot to drink, and it’s raining.”

“Are you trying to persuade me to stay, Miss Artemisia?” asked Rosa. “Tempting. But I better go. I went mad at my roommate when she missed movie night just because she’d got off with a hot girl. And the broom flies itself.”

Floriane nodded. She really wasn’t sure where this was going. Was she an idiot? At one time, she would have cut all ties with someone getting too close. She had too many secrets to take a lover. Bad secrets and bad history. And yet… she pictured Rosa’s face looking up at her, and knew she had to try. Even bad witches deserved that.

“Don’t worry, Floriane,” Rosa said. “It really will be alright, you’ll see. Maybe tomorrow we can try restraints; I know you like those. You can witch-voice me into putting them on, and I’ll try to resist.”

Rosa quickly kissed her, grabbed her broom, and skipped out the door.

Floriane watched her take off in the street, hoping whoever’s car that was wouldn’t complain about the boot mark on the roof. She locked the door. 

Normally, she would listen to the wireless now, or undertake some project in the workshop, or spend some time with a doll or two. Tonight she just sat on the sofa and listened to the rain for a while. Imagining Rosa kissing, Rosa swallowing.

At the usual time, she started checking the boutique from bottom to top; switching lights off, putting things away. Finally, the shop darkened, she ended up in the supply room.

She undressed; her hand traced over the spot where the brand had been removed, and where her scars had been. Her skin was free of scars and marks now, free even of blemishes, and had been for an age. Yet the mind remembers, she thought. Removing those memories would be a relatively simple piece of magic, but the memories protected her.

She hung her hat on the back of the door, and put everything else into the washing basket. She laid out a set of similar clothes for tomorrow. Then she climbed the ladder/stairs to the attic.

It was small and dark in here, though a tiny circular window let in some light. The rain was louder here. Floriane kicked off her slippers. 

She opened the door to her case; the light picked out the fractured glass. She used the broken gap, where the hasp had been, to open it. The shattered glass was old enough now that it rarely cut her. Floriane climbed onto the wooden hooks, and pulled the door closed.

“A good day, all things considered,” she said to herself. “Well done, doll.”