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Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Donna Beneviento. She was, like many other girls, quiet, subdued, not interested in talking or playing loud games. She saw the world, and the world saw her, but there was always a distance between the two of them. The world was a harsh, cruel place, filled with people who would point at her when she was out, and so she shied away from it. The nursery and all of its many toys were her country, the house her world.
But she had her family, and she was content.
“Come play with me by the waterfall, Donna!” Her sister, Claudia, was all exuberance, energy and noise. She didn’t understand Donna’s quiet, solitary world, nor did Donna understand her world of sunlight and sweat, but the twins nonetheless loved one another, and Claudia was the only one who could stir Donna into any kind of energy, the two of them often playing hop-scotch and hide and seek and all the other games that children are inclined to play.
“In a moment, Claudia.” She was too busy looking at the bride doll, a birthday present from their father. She had many dolls already, but none of them were the special dolls that her family made, the ones that she would spend hours watching her parents at work on, her father’s brush painting details onto the eyes and cheeks and her mother’s needle and thread creating dresses that looked like they came from a picture book. Each time, however, they were sent off to some other girl in some other place. For as long as she could remember, every year for her birthday, she had asked for a doll, and every year, he had put it off.
“Dolls have power,” he’d said, his smile creasing the lines around his eyes. “We put a little of ourselves in each one. When you are old enough to understand, then you will have your doll.”
This year, her seventh birthday, had been it. She had woken up and there, on the bed, had been the most beautiful doll she had seen. At first, she was scared to touch it, afraid that she would drop it, but it had stayed in her hands, the lace gown and veil impossibly delicate, the porcelain skin so finely worked that she almost imagined that she saw blue veins on the skin. Next to it had been an envelope with her name on it and, inside of it, had been a letter.
Dear Donna,
Happy sixth birthday - I’ve been waiting for you for a long time!
I hope we can be best friends,
Angie
By the time she looked up from her reverie, Claudia was gone, leaving the front door to the house open.
“Claudia?” She stepped outside slowly, cautiously, aware that she wasn’t in her own space, the sunlight foreign and harsh on her. “Claudia, wait for-”
And then, over the rush of the waterfall, she heard her mother’s scream.
Once upon a time, there was a girl whose mother had died. Her father, being a prosperous merchant who was often away, married another woman, hoping that she would act as a mother to the girl, but she was cold and cruel, forcing her to sleep by the cinders. But, every day, the girl would weep by her mother’s grave, and she planted a hazel-twig on it, and the tree grew great and strong, and it watched over her.
“Is Mama mad at me?” Donna asked her father one evening, the glow of his workbench the last constant light in the house.
Since Claudia had gone, her mother was a stranger to her. Sometimes, she would hug her and kiss her, and everything would be normal again, and she would be happy. Sometimes, though, she would pull back, and there was something in her eyes, something that scared Donna. A kind of coldness, like Donna had turned into someone else while they were hugging. Sometimes, when she would call Donna over, it was desperate, as if she was worried that she would never see her again, and sometimes, it was harsh, as if she desperately wanted to never see her again. Sometimes, Donna would wake up in the middle of the night, and there would be her mother at the door, a candle in her hands and an unreadable expression on her face. Othertimes, she would go down the hall for a drink of water and hear sobbing from her mother’s room, and it wouldn’t stop until Donna fell asleep. (She learned quickly to never go in there herself, as all that would happen would be that her mother would see her, jolt up, and then scream for her to go away, nearly throwing her out of the room.)
He did not look at her, suddenly fixated on attaching some wax around the iris of a doll eye, something she’d seen him do a hundred times without thinking of it.
Then, he sighed, putting the eye into a socket and pressing in, so that the wax would stick to the porcelain before they plastered it. “Your mother is mad at many people, don’t take it to heart.”
She didn’t know how to say that that might be true, but it didn’t change the fact that it didn’t feel that way. Instead, she solemnly nodded her head. “I understand, Papa.”
The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, and he leaned over, kissing her forehead. “Don’t let yourself be troubled. This will all pass.”
She forced herself to mirror his smile, muscles being pulled upwards like a puppet’s limbs. “Thank you.”
The smile dropped as she went out of the room, and she moved as quickly as she could to her bedroom. It became a certain game to see how quickly she could make it back, but not the laughing games that she would play with Claudia - The game she played in the dark was one of those tension filled children’s games that came with shallow breathing and quickened steps. In that moment, it felt as if everything is on the line, a monster always just behind her, ready to snatch her up if she didn’t run fast enough. Here, the dark went from being her kingdom to being her protector, and she learned how to hide herself in the shadows, how to move without being seen, which floorboards would creak beneath her feet and which ones would stay silent. Fear was overcome with exhilaration when she made it to her room, content that, that time, the monster would not eat her.
Angie was her solace, the little doll saying the things that she could not. Before, Claudia had been her confidant, one girl often crawling from her own bed into the others so they could share their fears and worries and protect one another from monsters and witches, but now that place was taken by Angie, the doll often sleeping beside her.
“Who does she think she is, treating you that way?”
“She’s doing her best.”
“If it was me, you know I’d-”
“She just misses Claudia. We all do.”
“But can’t she see that you’re right there? And what about your father, huh? Could he BE any more useless?”
Donna’s mouth twitched upwards on its own volition as she fell into a fitful sleep.
Once upon a time, there was an orphan girl, and she said nothing, because there was no one left to hear what she had to say.
“Miss Beneviento, we are very sorry to inform you, but your mother- ”
The only sound that could be heard in the Beneviento house was that of a porcelain doll shattering on the wooden floor.
Once upon a time, there was a girl, a princess, and she had parents who doted on her greatly. Her father in particular adored her, and gave her a doll almost as big as she was, and long after he was gone, the two of them were constantly seen together, the girl and the doll. The girl had fallen into hard times, and she was often lonely, but had fallen into the habit of “supposing”, and so forgot her worries, so that, in her mind, she was a princess, and the doll a person of flesh and blood.
It had been difficult to repair Angie - Though she had watched many times as her father had repaired a doll for a village child, she had never done it herself. She used her father’s old brush, the one he had used to bring Angie to life, coating it with a thin layer of adhesive. Each piece, she put back together, holding each one so that they would stay together, and painting a layer on both the back and front to seal it.
The crack would never fully mend, but Donna didn’t care, a hand reaching out from the heavy mourning clothes, with all the hesitation of their first meeting, to touch her oldest, only friend’s face, Angie’s glass eyes looking ahead. They matched one another, now, understanding, better than anyone could, that the world did not put stock in anything that was a little different.
She tried to go to one of the village festivals, once, going at night, led by the warm light of the fire and the calls of the villagers to one another.
“Come to the fire! Come to the fire!” They called, and she walked, slowly, her long dress making it hard to maneuver and see. She could find her way around the house easily, knowing the location of everything, down to the smallest button, but the forest was different, filled with trees with branches that scratched and tugged at her clothing, as if trying to keep her from going forward.
Atop a hill, the villagers were assembled, their dark silhouettes moving around the fire, amber sparks releasing into the air. Some young boys were jumping back and forth, daring the fire to strike their legs. She stood there, wondering what it would be like to join them, whether they would accept her, but then she was overwhelmed by the shouting, by the songs she didn’t know, by her clothing roasting her alive, and she ran back into the dark, clutching onto Angie, and she thought she felt Angie clutching back.
She did not, could not belong to that world, but they had one another.
Once, there was a girl, living in a large house, surrounded by hills and valleys that were shrouded in mist. She was alone - Her parents had left her, however she contented herself with the dolls that she made. In them, she found her companionship, even if they couldn’t respond. To them, she was mother, sister, and queen, all in one. But the kingdom was frightening for a girl alone, filled with goblins that lurked in the shadows, and, though she would talk to her dolls, they could not talk back. But then, one day, an old lady dressed in black came, her back straight and strong despite her age, and said “I came here to take care of you.”
“Hello,” the woman peered at her, smiling beneath her raven’s mask, her eyes a warm, golden color, like honey. “May I come in?”
Donna opened the door a notch, and the woman came in. Like Donna, she wore black, but instead of heavy mourning, she wore feathers and ragged cloth, a silver stole hanging from her neck like a scarf.
“What are you doing here?” Angie propped herself on Donna’s knee. Donna raised a hand to her head, hushing her. Growing up, she had heard stories of Mother Miranda, though she had never ventured to any of the ceremonies in her name.
Miranda settled into a sitting chair. “Be at peace, child. I had heard of your situation in the village, your parents. I’m truly sorry. I’ve come to offer my solace in this difficult time.”
Donna looked down. Angie tilted her head curiously. No one, in all the years since her parents’ deaths, had come to pay their respects - All she had seen were people come to gawk at the Beneviento Recluse. Once, she had asked the Gardener, the last of the servants to remain, and he had looked ashamed before saying that many in the village believed her to be dead, the lady in the house nothing more than a ghost, even though he had done his best to dispel the rumors.
“Them? They’ve been dead for years,” Angie said. “Everyone says it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I know something of loss,” Mother Miranda said, her voice soft, “It never fully goes away, does it? The world can be so cruel.”
Both Donna and Angie were quiet, listening to the woman speak until the moon was high in the sky. For the first time since Claudia’s death, she felt the tentative beginnings of a bond forming with another human being, the first threads being a shared understanding. Miranda didn’t judge her for Angie, or for her scar, or for her mourning. Instead, she talked to her the same as her family had, familiar and warm.
Mother Miranda began to visit once a day, and Donna found herself looking forward to the visits.
“I have a confession to make,” Mother Miranda said one day, putting down her teacup. “I don’t want things to continue going on as they have been.”
What?
Mother Miranda was leaving her?
Her heart sank deep in her stomach at the thought of one more person walking out of her life. She had only just gotten used to the idea of having outside companionship.
She barely had enough time to feel fear before Mother Miranda added, “Tell me, my dear, how would you feel if I was to adopt you, formally?”
Adopt?
“What do you mean, ‘adopt me’?” Angie asked.
“I know what it feels like to lose my family, as do you. Perhaps we can find what we’re missing with each other. You must know I have three other children - Very well-behaved and sweet.” She paused, sipping her tea. “In their own way. You’ll have siblings. You’ll never be lonely again, if you wish it, and you’ll want for nothing. And I have a gift for you when you accept.”
“Family,” Donna said, tears staining her veil.
Once upon a time, there was a girl, and her parents had died, carried away in the night, and she wrapped herself in black, making the shadows her home. The shadows did not judge her, they did not discriminate, they just were . She did not need garish sunlight, the cool touch of wood and metal calming to her. Visitors, what few there were, noted how stiff and still she was, and said that it was unnatural for any child to sit still, like an old woman, the black veil she wore hiding her eyes and face.
Then, one day, her life changed when she met her mysterious guardian, and she unlocked a magical garden, filled with magic and wonder, where her heart was allowed to heal.
Mother Miranda did not come often after she had given her “gift of power” to Donna, but, even as a twinge of loneliness settled over her, she understood that she had been given something unique. Even if Mother Miranda couldn’t be with her often, she had given her the means to have company, her oldest, dearest companions, and Donna’s heart soared as each doll was given the Cadou, their faces becoming animated, lively.
Her father had been right all those years ago: They did put a piece of themselves into each of their dolls. How could she keep all of the Cadou for herself, when they were as much a part of her as her eye or her hand?
With the pollen, she could have her own world, a world where anything could happen, a world that was not the world outside. A world with Claudia, with her mother and father, still young, still happy, with Mother Miranda smiling with approval, with siblings who loved her. She could spend hours there with her ghosts, the air filled with the clink of fine china that was now covered in cobwebs and the laughter of those whose bodies laid rotting in the family cemetary.
It was a gift she could share with anyone who came near - The world was a harsh place, and, for an hour or two, they could play far away from it. No one visited her of their own free will anymore, no one remembered the lady in black in the old Beneviento home, none but the odd boy coming in for a dare, but with her pollen, they could pay attention to her. They would come through the mist, and she would not be alone.
For an hour or two, she knew them better than anyone - Every desire, every fear. There was a beauty in her power, the ability to know a person’s innermost thoughts, to turn them one way or another. All she had to do was look at the Gardener’s face when he had told her that he had seen his dead wife, that look of pure euphoria.
It would have been cruel, the next day, to let him continue on, knowing that his family were really and truly dead, as opposed to letting him exist, forever, in that moment, even if it was difficult to see him leave her after so many years.
They always left her, in the end, and she always felt a certain pang in her chest each time, but she knew that they were at peace, though Angie and the other dolls complained at no longer having a playmate.
Once-
Once-
Once-
Once upon a time, there was a dark weaver, living in a realm of shadow and death. A little girl approached, body blue and shivering from the cold. The Weaver saw the child, and with a clip of her fingers, crafted mist into a beautiful dress.
“Come, child, warm yourself,” she coaxed.
So she clothed herself, and smiled with joy.
And the girl’s heart knew peace.
And the girl’s heart knew peace.