Everything that should be done has been done, and everything that has a place has been put there. Nothing remains now but to wait, and so wait the doll does, its uniform freshly pressed and perfectly neat, one more thing set precisely in its place.

The old grandfather clock ticks in synchrony with the doll’s internals, point and counterpoint, bass and alto. Hour-old sunlight, soaked into the hallway rug, warms its jointed knees. Dust circles in the evening light, slow and golden. In every room of the house, every passage and chamber, there is the silence of a held breath.

Soon, the front door will open, and she will be here, and the doll will rise to take her coat, the first step of the dance it loves best. Soon, but not yet. So the doll closes its eyes

and waits.