The Doll Maker Read Free Page B

someone new. Someone we hope will become a new friend. Won’t you say you’ll join us?’
    The young woman looked confused. But still she was gracious. This is the sign of a good upbringing. Both Mr Marseille and I believe courtesy and good manners are paramount to getting along in the world these days. It is what lingers with people after you take your leave, like the quality of your soap, or the polish of your shoes.
    ‘Look,’ the young lady began. ‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. But thanks anyway.’ She glanced at her watch, then back at Mr Marseille. ‘I’m afraid I have a ton of homework.’
    With a lightning fast move Mr Marseille took the girl by both wrists, and spun her into the alleyway. Mr Marseille is quite the athlete, you see. I once saw him catch a common housefly in midair, then throw it into a hot skillet, where we witnessed its life vanish into an ampersand of silver smoke.
    As he seized the girl I watched her eyes. They flew open to their widest: counterweights on a precious Bru. I noticed then, for the first time, that her irises had scattered about them tiny flecks of gold.
    This would be a challenge for me, for it was my duty – and my passion – to re-create such things.

    We sat around the small table in our workshop. At the moment it was just Nicole, Mr Marseille, and me. Our friends had yet to arrive. There was much to do.
    ‘Would you like some more tea?’ I asked.
    The girl opened her mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Our special tea often had this effect. Mr Marseille and I never drank it, of course, but we had seen its magical results on others many times. Nicole had already had two cups, and I could only imagine the colors she saw; Alice at the mouth of the rabbit hole.
    I poured more tea into her cup.
    ‘There,’ I said. ‘I think you should let it cool for a time. It is very hot.’
    While I made the final measurements, Mr Marseille excused himself to make ready what we needed for the gala. We were never happier than at this moment, a moment when, needle in hand, I made the closing stiches, and Mr Marseille prepared the final table.

    We parked by the river, exited the car. Before showing our guest to her seat, Mr Marseille blindfolded me. I could barely conceal my anticipation and delight. I do so love a tea.
    Mr Marseille does, as well.
    With baby steps I breached the path. When Mr Marseille removed my scarf, I opened my eyes.
    It was beautiful. Better than beautiful.
    It was magic .
    Mr Marseille had selected the right color. He often labored over the decision for days, but each time, after the disposing of the rollers and trays and brushes, after the peeling away of the masking tape, it was as if the object of his labors had always been so.
    Moments later we helped the girl – Nicole Solomon was her full name – from the car. Her very presence at our table made her absent from another. Such is the way of all life.
    As Mr Marseille removed the stockings from the bag, I made my goodbye, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, thinking that Mr Shakespeare was surely wrong.
    There is no sweetness in parting.
    Only sorrow.
    I returned to where Mr Marseille stood, and pressed something into his gloved hand.
    ‘I want her to have this,’ I said.
    Mr Marseille looked at what I had given him. He seemed surprised. ‘Are you sure?’
    I was not. But I’d had it so long, and loved it so deeply, I felt it was time for the bird to fly on its own.
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure.’
    Mr Marseille touched my cheek and said, ‘My dearest heart.’

    Under the bright moon, as Philadelphia slept, we watched the shadow of the girl’s legs cast parallel lines on the station house wall, just like the double l in Anabelle and Mr Marseille.

2
    They always come back.
    If there was one truth known to Detective Kevin Francis Byrne – as well as any veteran law enforcement officer, anywhere in the world – it was that criminals always come back for their