The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas

Marwolaeth Hall was an imposing structure with its steep roofline, ominous gables that numbered three, and the seemingly daunting sharpness of even its rounded turret that capped the bay window on the eastern side.?It wasn't necessarily the largest dwelling one might chance to come across in the moorland near the village of Dunsford, England, but it was certainly commanding enough to make one stop and consider the nature of those who would make such a place their home. Even in the daylight it seemed to whisper of treachery and consternation, and it was no wonder the original owners had given it such a fortuitous name.

Serendipity Fizzlestitch had not called Marwolaeth her home for nearly eight years, choosing instead to occupy a much smaller, much less daunting cottage nearly twenty furlongs to the south of her original home, off in the woods where the trees blocked most of the view of the gothic structure. Not that she ever went out where she could potentially catch a glimpse, nor did she ever dare peek out the tightly drawn, black woolen curtains. Her mind was apt to visit Marwolaeth even without a visual reminder, and she found it best to distance herself in every way possible if she were to hold on to lingering strands of sanity, no matter how drifting or fleeting they may be. No, Serendipity had not stepped foot inside Marwolaeth even once since she had been dragged out screaming by Dr. Tweedlton and Deputy Shillingpepper the morning of April 8, 1862, the day she had killed her family.

The cottage consisted of one large room with a loft where Serendipity kept a mat on the floor where she occasionally gave in and rested for a few hours from time to time.?More often, she dozed restlessly for an hour or so here and there in a wooden rocking chair situated near the fireplace, which was often the only source of light. Maevis was always telling her to open the curtains or light one of the lanterns she kept oiled on her weekly visits. But Serendipity preferred the dark. It was harder to see one's sins in the absence of light.

It was also a bit harder to see her work, but she had become so accustomed to the repetitive movements of her art that she truly required very little of her eyesight. There were times, however, that she felt her eyes had become so accustom to the dark that she was fairly certain she would be able to see even in the pitch black. She has always had pale skin and light hair but now, whenever she accidentally caught a glimpse of herself in the tin teapot or one of her other meager dishes, she hardly recognized herself. Which was not unwelcome. The idea of being someone else was a pleasant one, and perhaps, if she had the smallest spark of hope that she could ever complete a metamorphosis into someone other than who she was, she might entertain the possibility of doing just that. But she knew in her heart she would never be more than the doll maker's murderous daughter who occupied a cottage behind her childhood home which continued to mock her in every passing thought and memory.

She sat in her straight back chair near the fire, her large magnifying glass posed between herself and the head she held carefully in her right hand, a finely tipped paintbrush slowly tapping against her chin as she contemplated precisely the expression for this newest beauty.?Over the years, she had become so familiar with the medium she now felt as if she were able to interpret the personality behind each blank slate and bring forth a living individual from within.?It generally only took a moment of careful contemplation before the face began to speak to her, and then the paintbrush would begin to dance in her hand, and before she knew it, there was a jovial smiling face looking up at her.?