The Dollhouse Romance Read online

  “Homework on a Monday night? When I was your age, I used to go to the movies. Or out with my friends. You’re the loneliest kid I’ve ever met.”

  I have no jolly comeback. I get sad because it’s true.

  “Hey. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know. Oh, well. See you later, alligator.”

  “In a while, crocodile.”

  “Toodeloo, caribou!”

  He narrows his eyes, unwilling to give up. “Bye, bye, butterfly.”

  I can’t give up now! It comes from the depths of my soul: “Off I go, scarecrow.”

  “That’s a good one!” He applauds. “You win. For tonight, anyway.”

  Amelia merely lifts an eyebrow when she sees my extra plate. Apparently she has better things to do than ask about the strange dietary habits of teenagers. She does point at the bandage over my ring, though. “You’ve had that on for a while. Is the wound getting infected? Do I need to take you to a clinic?”

  So she noticed my bandage, after all. Time to use the story I’ve been working on. “What, this? It’s the new trend at school. Everyone’s wearing bandage rings. You can get them in all kinds of fun colors and patterns, you know. Some of the kids wear bandage rings on every finger!” Then I hold my breath. It sounded like a better story in my head.

  “The latest trend, huh?” She shakes her head. “At least it’s not a tattoo.”

  “Or infected.”

  She almost cracks a smile. Whew. My “trend” won’t be disappearing anytime soon.

  We bid each other goodnight when we reach my room. I snatch my sketchbook off the nightstand, hopeful that George, being a famous architect, might give me some pointers on how to make my own designs come to life. I shove it into my backpack. Then I hurry to the study.

  Inside the dollhouse perimeter, I set the tray down on the study’s creaky wooden floor and then peep through the windows. The curtains in the billiards room are pulled back, so I can see the Whitmans – minus David – gathered there. A quick peek upstairs through David’s window shows him reading on his bed. Good. Let him stay there. I’d rather visit the others in peace.

  I don’t mean to pop in to his room, but I do – probably because I’m thinking about him. Oops. “Sorry. I’m still trying to get the hang of entering and leaving.”

  He tosses his book aside. “You’re always welcome here, Miss Zenia.”

  “That’s not what you told Nathaniel the other night,” I blurt, my voice a little too sarcastic. I force myself to sound more neutral. “You told him to get rid of me.”

  “Yes, I did,” he admits. “I didn’t know about your ring then. A thousand apologies, if you’ll accept them.”

  Good humor twinkles in his hazel eyes, but it’s the way his deep voice booms around in my chest that makes me relent. I shrug. “No biggie.”

  Sitting up costs him effort. I’m afraid his Victorian manners might compel him to rise to his feet in my presence, so I hurry to sit on the stool next to his bed.

  “It was my sincere intention to protect you,” he explains when I’m sitting at eye-level with him. “Being trapped here is… worse than awful. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” His lips pull back into what would be a friendly smile if the scars didn’t distort it so.

  Protect me? He might deserve his King Arthur nickname, after all. “I thought you were angry at me,” I mumble. “For causing you pain or something.”

  His deep voice comes out in tender surprise. “I could never be angry at you.” His smile is crooked, yet beautiful. “That explains what I was feeling from you. I thought…” It’s his turn to be embarrassed.

  “What?”

  He draws a shaky breath. “I thought you were… repulsed… by me.”

  “For what?” I blink like an idiot before realizing he’s talking about his face. Then I catch the thing he said just before that. “Wait a minute. You’re reading my thoughts?”

  “Not now. Haven’t heard you ever since we woke up. I think it only works when we’re in doll mode.”

  “Good. I don’t want anyone in my head.”

  “My scars really don’t bother you?”

  I stare at his face, pensive. His hazel eyes are sharp and intelligent underneath a welt that splits his left eyebrow in half and continues down his cheek to his jaw. He might win an Ugly Award from the mean kids at school, but to me the angry red marks only add character. Something he might have won on the battlefield, if he might have been a true warrior king like Arthur.

  He’s watching me, anxious, as I continue to study him. I even reach out to feel the ridge along his cheek.

  My finger gets zapped by a shock of electricity so sharp, I gasp and snatch my hand back. He must have felt it, too. We both drop our gaze at the same time. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  “I scare you,” he snorts. “No need for shame; I’m aware of what I look like. Phoebe used to tell her little companions I was a demon who would eat them if they didn’t obey her commands.”

  What scares me is how much I want to touch him again, to let my hands linger on the scruffy part around his chin, to trace those expressive lips of his. But there’s no way I’m going to admit my instant attraction! Besides, I’m already kind of falling for Nathaniel – what sort of person likes two guys at once? “I don’t care what you look like. Shame on her. That’s horrible.”

  He looks away, trying to turn his scars from me. “She only did it for a few years. After she killed her mother-”

  “Killed her mother?”

  “Turned her into a statue. Alexis said it’s out in the evergreen maze, as a centerpiece for Mr. Akakios to visit.”

  Whoa. That cute little girl in the mirror isn’t just a thief and a kidnapper. She’s a murderer, too. I hope the containment seal around her nursery is strong enough to keep her away from me! “What year was that?”

  “1899.”

  “And Alexis took care of Phoebe until 1945.” That explains the photograph on my vanity. It’s the last one Alexis would have had of her mother. She seemed like such a nice mother, too, with a warm and encouraging smile. Now she’s dead.

  I only have one current photo of my mother. Shivers run down my spine. What if she’s… I won’t finish the thought.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “after she killed her mother, she wasn’t allowed to have visitors anymore. And they only let her play with the dollhouse under supervision. But with Alexis gone, the Ambassador was all in a fuddle. He’s human, see. Didn’t have any powers to deal with his own daughter.”

  I push aside my fears about Mamá in order to solve a small piece of my mental puzzle. “Wait. I’m confused. So the Ambassador has two daughters, Phoebe and Alexis, right?”

  He nods.

  “That makes him over a hundred years old. How is that possible, if he’s human?”

  “You shall have to ask Henry that. He’s the Artemic expert, being in love with Alexis and all. They were engaged to be married.”

  “And you guys stayed awake this whole time. Listening to the radio and TV.” Questions swirl in my head – things I can’t ask Michael or Amelia, things they probably don’t even know themselves. Where to start?

  His rumble sounds amused. “You’re wondering what it’s like, living as a doll.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You are reading my thoughts.”

  “No. But I study faces. I can read yours pretty well. Go ahead, ask.”

  “Okay. For one thing, I’d have been bored to tears with nothing to do for decades except think. How did you all stay sane?”

  “That wasn’t easy. It didn’t take us long to realize we were linked telepathically, maybe an effect of Alexis tying her ring to Phoebe and the mirror. We couldn’t really talk to each other, though, just read impressions and emotions. Being able to hear each other’s thoughts is both good… and embarrassing. When one of us fell into despair, the rest of us would send comfort. Or we’d join them and wallow in hopelessness.” He shakes his head. “Now that we need words, one is allowe
d the pleasure of privacy again.”

  How rude of me. Of course he’d want to be alone now. “I should go.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder.

  “No! Stay.” He sits up in alarm, hissing at the sudden movement.

  I sit back down on the stool, concerned by the contortions twitching in his face. “You okay?” A porcelain pitcher of water squats on his nightstand. I slosh some into his mug and hand it to him when the spasm passes.

  His skin has gone white, but he takes a sip. “I’d be grateful for your presence; company takes my mind off things. At least the wounds don’t bleed anymore. Forgive me. That wasn’t very delicate.”

  I scoff. “We girls are a lot tougher now than you’re used to. No more swooning or smelling salts. Tell me more about being a doll. Does it hurt?”

  “Not at all. We can still see, hear, and smell, but we don’t feel anything. No hot, no cold, no hunger. Pressure, perhaps, but no pain.” His smile turns sour. “Until we awaken and turn into flesh and blood again.”

  Those beads of sweat on his brow are my fault. “I shouldn’t have brought you out of the drawer. If it’s better for you to be in doll mode –” I try to yank off my ring with a mighty tug.

  “Stop! It means so much to my family that you’re here. To have lives again… To do what they please, when they please, without anyone putting them anywhere or making them play silly games… You must understand the joy it brings me to know they’re happy. They don’t know how much I suffer. I shan’t ruin it for them. Besides, I’ve learned to control much of the pain. Please.” He grips my sleeve. “Don’t tell them. It’s worth the price.” He maneuvers the ring back to the base of my finger. “Don’t ever take that off again.”

  The wounded knight, still playing hero. How can I refuse? “It doesn’t come off, anyway.” Unsettled, I try to pull my hand free.

  “Good.” He raises an eyebrow, suddenly playful, and kisses my hand before returning it to me.

  His kiss burns its way into my soul.

  These Whitman boys and their old-fashioned charm! It throws me off balance.

  To switch the subject, I glance down at my sketchbook, which peeps out of the unzipped backpack at my feet.

  David’s gaze follows mine. “Is that the sketchbook you told Mother about?”

  I shrug but pass it to him. “They’re just my silly drawings. I have no training, really. Mostly just daydreams and life experience.”

  The room is silent as he flips page by page, in no hurry. “Am I interpreting these correctly? Entire houses that would fit into my bedroom?”

  “Well, their ceilings are a bit higher than yours, but essentially, yes. Think of them as RV’s, except you get to build your own.”

  “RV’s?”

  “Recreational vehicles.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve heard the term on TV, but I don’t know what they look like. Remember, the last time I saw the outside world was 1891. Sometimes Phoebe would bring magazines, but…” He shrugs, looking embarrassed of his ignorance.

  “I understand.” I keep printouts of my favorite Tiny House plans in the front pocket of the sketchbook. I dump them out on his bed so he can see what real Tiny Houses are supposed to look like. “This one’s famous.” I point to the Lilypad. “I love her distinctive purple door and Indian-style decoration. Wouldn’t want that kind of décor in my own house, but I think it’s pretty.”

  “What’s your style, then?”

  I point to the Protohaus with its crisp, white interior and large windows. “I love how functional this one is, but look at this one.” I tap the Fortune Cookie. “This is a caravan built by Abel Zimmerman Zyl. Isn’t that a fun name to say? Look at this roof – it’s like something from a fairy tale. I want that kind of charm in my own vardo.”

  “Vardo? Another word I missed this past century?”

  His tone is so wistful, I have to laugh. “Normal people don’t use that word. I think it’s forgotten. It used to mean gypsy wagon.”

  “You’ll have to save me from my own ignorance, Miss Zenia. Listening to TV is one thing, but having a modern conversation…”

  I dare to smile at him. He’s an odd blend of helpless and helpful, trapped in a limited but gorgeous body. I thought I had no control of my life, with Mamá moving us around all the time, but he’s got even less control. How thwarted he must feel! “We’ll have to fix that, then. I prescribe an hour of conversation, every day.”

  “Deal. I shall be your humble student.” He holds out his hand.

  My heart rate skyrockets when I shake his hand. His skin is warm and dry, the pressure strong but gentle. I don’t know why he terrifies me so much – or why it’s such pleasant terror.

  Among my printouts is a Tiny House parked right next to an RV. “Here’s an RV,” I say, a little too loud and fast, releasing his handshake in order to pick up the printout.

  “Ah. It’s a trailer coach. Phoebe has a few toy models.” His smile goes crooked again, like he’s trying to not laugh at me. Then he turns his attention back to my sketchbook. He stops flipping when he reaches a plan I call The Suitcase. It’s 160 square feet, not counting the sleeping lofts, but it has a full bath, kitchen, and a restaurant-style dining booth that’s going to double as an office. “This one’s your favorite.”

  I look at him in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “It’s the only one in full color. With little hearts up and down the margins.”

  “I can’t figure out where to put a fireplace. That’s the problem with Tiny Houses – you can only fit in your bare necessities. There’s no space for extras.”

  “You want to use a cast-iron stove, like the one in your printouts?”

  I nod.

  “So move the door here and your ladder here.” He bends over my page, the pencil making rapid corrections to my design. “That’s still road-legal, isn’t it?”

  If the solution weren’t so brilliant, and if he weren’t so nice, I’d be really upset about a stranger drawing in my book. Instead, I just shake my head in wonder. “I’m trying to get up the nerve to show these to your father. He’s awfully intimidating.”

  He chuckles. “I suppose he comes across that way. But he’s a real jim-dandy, once you get to know him.”

  Before I can ask what a jim-dandy is, the riddle card I’ve been using for a bookmark flutters to his quilt. My sketchbook falls to his quilt, forgotten. He sucks in air as he reads the front and back. “To save the Whitmans?”

  “Someone left that for me. Twice.”

  His voice goes hard. “Who?”

  “No idea.”

  “What does it mean?” The way he grips the card, his fingertips turning white, makes me ashamed of my delay. To me, the riddle is just a pastime, something to solve for fun. To him, it’s a way to break the dollhouse’s curse.

  Freedom.

  That’s what this riddle offers.

  I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t really given it much thought, so I stammer through the few ideas I’ve come up with, even though none of them are the solution. His brow furrows more and more. When I’m done, he flips my sketchbook over to use as a flat surface. “Could you bring me that box? The one on the dresser?”

  I follow his pointing finger to a small but ornate wooden chest. He opens it, revealing dozens of tiny wooden animals inside, plus a pocket knife and a cotton bag.

  “For the shavings,” he explains when I open the bag.

  It’s a collection of woodland animals– moose, squirrel, chipmunk, fox – and they’re so lifelike, I want to pet their fur. My hand lingers over the mallard duck just as the thought strikes me – were they real? Are they dead now? My voice comes out in a high pitch: “Did Phoebe shrink these?”

  “Don’t worry. I carved them.” He picks out a timber wolf and a loon. There’s a toy soldier on his dresser, so we use that for the lumberjack, and we end up using my box of bandages for the boat. Then he holds up a crust of stale bread left from breakfast. “It’s not wild rice, but it should do.”
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  Why didn’t I think to use three-dimensional objects? I contribute by folding a section of his blanket until it’s jagged like a river.

  We take turns moving the pieces on the boat in different permutations. His warm hand presses lightly against mine as we both make a move for the loon. Again, the shock. “Sorry,” he says, pulling back.

  Two minutes later, he nods. “Got it.”

  “What? Already?”

  He sits back, folds his arm across his chest, and smirks.

  I quell my desire to run my fingers along his cheek again. “So tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Come on!”

  “Do you really want me to?”

  “No,” I admit after a long hesitation. “It cheats the fun away.”

  Is that admiration twinkling in his mischievous hazel eyes?

  I pull my attention back to the quilt, to his last move where he left the timber wolf and loon on the market side of the river. But that’s against the rule – the timber wolf will eat the loon, unless…

  “Oh.” I place the timber wolf on the bandage boat and then return him to his original side. “You’ve got to take something back on the return trip.”

  “Precisely.”

  I load the wolf back onto the boat so he won’t eat the loon, and then leave him on the original shore while I load up the grain. Load up, take back, and return as needed. Soon, all three items make it safely to the other side.

  We grin at each other, comrades in a shared victory. Until I’m stupid enough to tarnish our moment by saying, “I don’t see how that’s going to get you out of here.”

  “I know,” he sighs, scooping his carved animals back into their box. “One thing at a time.”

  “I mean, am I the boat? I can get myself through the perimeter, so can I pull you through, too? Who’s the wolf or the wild rice? I can’t see your family turning cannibal and eating each other if we leave the wrong people together. Unless I accidentally leave Nathaniel with you…”

  He smiles at my lame joke, which makes me happy. People don’t usually get my dark sense of humor. “Maybe you are the boat,” he muses, reaching out to touch my ring but letting his finger hover over it instead. “We’ll have to try out your theory. You need to take someone through the perimeter.”