The Dollmaker / Season 1, Episode 3
Cracked Porcelain Secrets
Mira’s fingers trembled as she brushed a fine layer of kaolin paste over the hairline crack on Barbora’s porcelain cheek. The restoration room in the baroque palace was a vault of silence, broken only by the faint scratch of her brush against the doll’s cold surface and the distant groan of the old building settling into the Prague winter. The air smelled of damp stone and the sharp tang of adhesive, a scent that clung to her clothes no matter how many times she washed them. Under the harsh light of the desk lamp, Barbora’s painted eyes seemed to flicker, catching the edge of Mira’s gaze before she forced herself to look away. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, even though she was alone—or at least, she thought she was.
“Stop it,” she muttered under her breath, her voice a rough whisper in the stillness. Her breath fogged briefly in the chilled room, the radiator in the corner doing little to combat the bite of January. She adjusted the magnifying visor strapped to her head, the weight of it pressing into her temples, and leaned closer to inspect the repair. The crack was nearly invisible now, smoothed over with the precision she’d spent years perfecting in her Miami studio. But something about Barbora’s face—those too-perfect lips, the faint blush of pigment dusted across her cheeks—made Mira’s stomach twist. She swore the doll’s expression had shifted since yesterday, a subtle tilt of sadness that hadn’t been there before. Impossible. She knew it was impossible. Porcelain didn’t move. Paint didn’t migrate. And yet, her hand hesitated over the brush, the paste drying on the tip.
The door creaked open behind her, a slow, deliberate sound that sent a jolt through her spine. She didn’t turn right away, her fingers tightening around the brush as if it could anchor her. Heavy footsteps crossed the parquet floor, the rhythm uneven, and she caught the faint whiff of stale coffee and cigarette smoke before Karolína spoke.
“You’re still at it,” the curator said, her voice thin and frayed, like thread pulled too tight. “It’s past midnight, Mira. You should’ve gone to bed hours ago.”
Mira exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax as she set the brush down on the worktable, careful not to smudge the wet paste. She pushed the visor up, rubbing at the red marks it left on her forehead, and swiveled on her stool to face Karolína. The older woman stood in the doorway, her coat still on, snowflakes melting into the wool of her scarf. Her face was gaunt, the shadows under her eyes deeper than they’d been even a week ago when Mira had arrived. Karolína’s hands were shoved deep into her pockets, but Mira could see the faint tremble in her fingers, the way her gaze darted past Mira to the doll on the table.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Mira said, her own voice rough from disuse. She gestured to Barbora with a flick of her chin. “Figured I’d get this one done. She’s almost ready for the display case.”
Karolína didn’t respond right away. She stepped into the room, the heels of her boots clicking against the floor, and stopped a few feet from the table. Her eyes locked on the doll, and for a moment, Mira thought she saw something like fear flash across the curator’s face—or maybe hunger. It was hard to tell with Karolína lately. The woman had been unraveling since the day Mira stepped off the plane, her obsession with the collection bleeding into every conversation, every glance.
“You’ve done... remarkable work,” Karolína said finally, her words careful, measured. She reached out as if to touch Barbora, then pulled her hand back at the last second, her fingers curling into a fist. “She looks—almost alive. More than the others, even.”
Mira’s skin prickled at the comment. She wanted to snap that porcelain wasn’t alive, that it couldn’t be, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she stood, stretching her aching back, and crossed to the sink in the corner to wash the kaolin residue from her hands. The water was ice-cold, stinging her knuckles as she scrubbed harder than necessary. “It’s just good craftsmanship,” she said over her shoulder, keeping her tone flat. “Whoever made these had an eye for detail. Too much detail, if you ask me.”
Karolína let out a small, humorless laugh. “Too much. Yes. That’s one way to put it.” She moved closer to the table, her boots scuffing against the floor, and Mira heard the faint rustle of fabric as the curator leaned down to study Barbora more closely. “Did you notice the hair? How it’s woven into the scalp? Not just glued. It’s... embedded. I’ve never seen anything like it in pieces from that era.”
Mira shut off the faucet, shaking water from her hands, and turned back to face the room. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Karolína, whose face was inches from Barbora’s now, her breath clouding the doll’s glossy surface. “I noticed,” Mira said, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. “I also noticed it’s human hair. Not horsehair, not synthetic. Real. I’m not sure I want to know where the dollmaker got it.”
Karolína straightened, her expression unreadable, though her lips pressed into a thin line. “You think it’s morbid. I can see it on your face.”
“I think it’s weird as hell,” Mira shot back, crossing her arms. “But I’m not here to judge. I’m here to fix them. Three months, spring exhibition, then I’m back to Miami. That’s the deal.”
The curator’s gaze hardened, just for a split second, before softening into something Mira couldn’t place. “Yes. The deal.” Karolína turned away from the table, pacing a few steps toward the tall, arched window on the far wall. The glass was frosted over, the city beyond reduced to smears of amber streetlight and shadow. “But you’ve felt it, haven’t you? Since you started working on them. The... weight of them. Not just in your hands, but—here.” She tapped her chest, right over her heart, without looking back at Mira.
Mira’s throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, to laugh it off with some quip about jet lag or the creepy old palace messing with her head. But the truth was, she had felt something. Every night since she’d started on Barbora, the dreams had come—vivid, suffocating visions of a workshop lit by flickering candles, the air thick with the scent of wet clay and something metallic, like blood. In the dreams, she wasn’t herself. She was watching through someone else’s eyes, hands that weren’t hers shaping a face out of raw, pale material. She could feel the texture under her fingertips, the cold slickness of it, even now as she stood in the restoration room. She shook her head, banishing the memory, and forced a smirk. “If you’re trying to spook me, Karolína, it’s not working. I don’t do ghost stories.”
Karolína turned back to face her, her expression unamused. “I’m not trying to spook you. I’m trying to warn you. These dolls—they’re not just artifacts. They’re... something else. I’ve spent years researching them, Mira. The stories, the disappearances tied to their creation. You can’t ignore what’s right in front of you.”
Mira opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her lips as a faint sound cut through the room—a soft, almost imperceptible creak, like a joint shifting under pressure. Her eyes snapped to Barbora, still perched on the worktable under the harsh light. The doll hadn’t moved. Of course it hadn’t. But for a heartbeat, Mira swore she saw the painted lips twitch, just the barest fraction, before settling back into stillness. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping against the edge of the sink.
“You heard it too,” Karolína said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t looking at Mira—she was staring at the doll, her face pale, her hands clenched at her sides. “I’m not imagining things. I’m not.”
“Old buildings make noises,” Mira said, though her voice lacked conviction. She forced herself to step forward, closer to the table, ignoring the way her skin crawled. “Wood contracts in the cold. Pipes settle. That’s all it is.”
Karolína didn’t respond. She just kept staring at Barbora, her breath shallow, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to reach out again but didn’t dare. Mira followed her gaze, her own hands balling into fists at her sides. The doll’s face was the same as it had been moments ago—smooth, flawless, the repair on the cheek seamless under the light. But there was something different now, something she couldn’t name. The air around Barbora felt heavier, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
“I’m going to bed,” Mira said abruptly, untying her apron and tossing it onto the back of the stool. She needed to get out of this room, away from the doll’s unblinking stare, away from Karolína’s unraveling intensity. “You should too. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Karolína blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll... I’ll lock up.” But she didn’t move toward the door. She stayed rooted in place, her eyes still on Barbora, as Mira grabbed her coat from the hook by the door and shrugged it on. The wool was cold against her skin, smelling faintly of the snow outside, and she welcomed the shiver it sent through her. Anything to shake off the feeling of those painted eyes boring into her back.
She didn’t say goodnight. She just turned and left, her boots echoing down the long, dimly lit corridor of the palace. The walls were lined with faded tapestries, their threads worn thin by centuries of neglect, and the air grew colder the farther she got from the restoration room. Her room—little more than a converted servant’s quarter—was on the third floor, up a narrow spiral staircase that groaned under her weight. By the time she reached her door, her breath was coming in short, sharp bursts, though she told herself it was just the climb, just the cold seeping through the stone.
Inside, the room was barely warmer, the small space heater humming ineffectively in the corner. She didn’t bother turning on the overhead light, relying instead on the faint glow of the city filtering through the single, cracked window. She shed her coat, kicked off her boots, and collapsed onto the narrow bed, the springs creaking under her. The sheets were stiff, smelling of old linen and dust, and she pulled the blanket up to her chin, trying to block out the chill. But sleep didn’t come easy. It never did here.
Her mind kept drifting back to Barbora, to the creak she swore she’d heard, to Karolína’s haunted expression. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to focus on something else—her studio back in Miami, the sound of the ocean through her open window, the warmth of the sun on her skin. But the images wouldn’t stick. Instead, she saw the doll’s face, those painted eyes flickering in the lamplight, and then—unbidden—the dream came creeping in again. The workshop, the candlelight, the hands shaping clay. Only this time, the face taking form under those fingers wasn’t featureless. It was Barbora’s face, down to the last detail, and the hands weren’t just shaping—they were carving, digging into something soft and yielding, something that wasn’t clay at all.
Mira’s eyes snapped open, her heart pounding against her ribs. The room was dark, the only sound the faint hum of the heater and the distant howl of wind against the palace walls. She sat up, rubbing at her face with both hands, trying to shake off the lingering dread. It was just a dream. Just stress. Just this damn place getting under her skin. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table—2:17 AM. Too late to do anything but lie back down and try again.
But as she settled back against the pillow, a sound cut through the silence—a faint, rhythmic tapping, like fingernails against wood, coming from somewhere down the hall. Her breath caught, her body going still as she strained to listen. Tap. Tap. Tap. Slow, deliberate, echoing through the empty corridors of the palace. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the pipes. It was something—or someone—moving in the dark.
She sat up again, her hand reaching instinctively for the small flashlight she kept by the bed. Her fingers closed around the cold metal, but she didn’t turn it on, not yet. She just sat there, listening, as the tapping grew louder, closer, until it seemed to stop right outside her door. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she stared at the thin strip of shadow under the doorframe, waiting for it to shift, waiting for something to come through.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the tapping stopped. The silence that followed was heavier, suffocating, and Mira realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled slowly, shakily, her grip on the flashlight tightening until her knuckles ached. She told herself to get up, to check the hall, to prove it was nothing. But her body wouldn’t move. She stayed frozen, staring at the door, as the cold of the room pressed in around her, and the memory of Barbora’s shifting expression burned behind her closed eyes.
Mira’s breath hitched as she forced herself to ease her grip on the flashlight, the metal’s chill biting into her palm. The silence outside her door wasn’t a relief—it was a weight, a presence that seemed to lean against the wood, listening as much as she was. Her eyes stayed locked on that sliver of shadow beneath the doorframe, half-expecting to see it waver, to catch the faint drag of something brushing past. But nothing moved. The palace held its breath with her, the ancient walls creaking softly in the distance as if reminding her they were there, watching too.
She shifted, the thin mattress groaning under her weight, and the sound felt obscene in the stillness. Her bare feet touched the icy floorboards, and a shiver crawled up her spine, not just from the cold. The air in the room was sharp, smelling of old wood and the faint, lingering tang of mineral spirits from her restoration tools. She told herself to move, to flick on the light, to break this spell of dread knotting in her chest. But her hand hovered over the switch, trembling. What if turning it on revealed something worse than the dark?
A faint scrape—barely audible, like a fingernail dragging across stone—came from the hallway. Her stomach lurched. She yanked her feet back onto the bed, curling into herself, the flashlight now a useless weight in her lap. It wasn’t footsteps, not exactly, but it was something. Something deliberate. Her mind raced through explanations—rats in the walls, a loose shutter, the building settling in the winter frost—but none of them stuck. She’d lived in enough old houses to know the difference between natural groans and… intent.
“Get a grip, Mira,” she whispered to herself, her voice a thin rasp that sounded alien in the room. Talking out loud was supposed to ground her, to remind her she was real, in control. But the words hung there, unanswered, and the dark seemed to swallow them whole. She pressed her back against the headboard, the carved wood digging into her shoulder blades, and tried to focus on the texture, the solidity. Anything to keep her from imagining what might be waiting just beyond that door.
Her phone sat on the nightstand, its screen a dim gray in the gloom. She could call Karolína. The curator’s room was only two floors up, in the warmer, renovated wing of the palace. But what would she even say? “I heard a noise, come hold my hand”? She could already picture Karolína’s pinched expression, the way her thin lips would press together in impatience or, worse, pity. No, she wasn’t dragging anyone into this. Not yet. Not until she was sure it wasn’t just her nerves fraying under the weight of this place.
Another sound—a soft thump, like something heavy shifting—came from further down the hall. Mira’s breath caught again, her fingers tightening around the flashlight until the joints ached. That wasn’t imagination. That wasn’t wind. Her gaze darted to the door, then to the window, where the heavy velvet curtains blocked out the moonless night. She could open them, let in whatever pale light Prague’s winter had to offer, but the thought of standing exposed in front of that glass made her skin crawl. What if something looked back?
She forced herself to move, sliding off the bed with as little noise as possible, her bare feet flinching against the cold floor. The flashlight stayed off—she couldn’t bear the thought of its beam cutting through the dark, revealing too much or not enough. Instead, she crept toward the door, each step deliberate, her toes curling against the uneven wood. The air grew thicker as she neared it, carrying a faint, sour whiff of dust and something else, something she couldn’t place. Her hand hovered over the brass knob, the metal so cold it felt wet under her fingertips. She pressed her ear to the wood, holding her breath, listening.
Nothing. Just the distant hum of the city beyond the palace walls, muffled by snow and stone. Her pulse thudded in her ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out everything else. She told herself to turn the knob, to look, to end this spiral of fear. But her hand wouldn’t move. It stayed there, frozen, as if the door itself were pushing back against her.
Then, a whisper. Not a sound she heard with her ears, but one that brushed against the edges of her mind, faint and fleeting. A voice, or the ghost of one, murmuring something she couldn’t catch. Her knees buckled, and she braced herself against the doorframe, the rough wood scraping her palm. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She was tired, stressed, letting this place get to her. But even as she repeated that mantra, her skin prickled with the certainty that she wasn’t alone.
She stumbled back, her heel catching on the edge of a rug, and nearly fell. Her hand shot out, catching the corner of the nightstand, and the sharp pain of the impact jarred her back to herself. Enough. She wasn’t doing this. She wasn’t going to sit here, paralyzed, waiting for whatever her mind—or this palace—was conjuring. She snatched her phone from the nightstand, the screen’s faint glow stinging her eyes as she unlocked it. No signal. Of course. The palace’s thick walls turned modern tech into a cruel joke. She’d have to go to the window, maybe lean out into the freezing night just to catch a bar or two.
The thought made her stomach twist, but so did staying here, trapped in this suffocating room. She crossed to the window in three quick strides, her bare feet slapping against the floor, and yanked the curtain aside. The glass was frosted over, spiderwebs of ice tracing patterns across the panes. Beyond it, Prague sprawled in a haze of orange streetlights and snow-dusted rooftiles, beautiful and indifferent. She pressed her phone to the glass, watching the signal bars flicker, teasing her with a single weak line before dropping again. “Come on,” she muttered, her breath fogging the window. Her reflection stared back, pale and hollow-eyed, and for a split second, she swore something moved behind it—something in the room, not the city.
She spun around, her back slamming against the glass, the cold biting through her thin sleep shirt. The room was empty. Just the bed, the nightstand, her scattered tools on the desk in the corner. But her eyes lingered on the shadows, on the way they seemed to pool deeper under the furniture, thicker than they should have been. Her flashlight was still on the bed, a useless lump in the tangled sheets. She didn’t move to get it. She couldn’t. Her legs felt like they were rooted to the floor, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that clouded in the frigid air.
And then she saw it. Not a shape, not a figure, but a shift. A subtle warping of the dark near the door, as if the shadows themselves were breathing. Her chest tightened, her fingers digging into the windowsill behind her, the splintered wood pricking her skin. She wanted to scream, to call out, but her throat was a vice, clamping down on any sound. The shadow didn’t move closer—it didn’t need to. Its presence was enough, a weight that pressed against her, heavy and deliberate, like a hand resting on her shoulder.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, pinned by fear and the cold, before the shadow seemed to recede, melting back into the ordinary darkness of the room. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, her back sliding down the window, the glass’s chill seeping into her spine. Her phone clattered beside her, forgotten, as she pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t crying—she didn’t have the energy for that. She just sat, trembling, trying to piece herself back together.
This wasn’t her. Mira Castillo didn’t fall apart over noises in the night. She’d worked in crumbling warehouses in Miami, restored artifacts in basements that smelled of mold and worse, faced down clients who thought her accent meant she didn’t know her craft. She was the one who kept her head, who fixed what was broken, who didn’t let the past—or the stories people spun about it—rattle her. But this place, this palace with its endless corridors and its secrets sealed into every stone, was different. It wasn’t just the dolls, though Barbora’s cracked, knowing gaze still lingered in her mind. It was the air itself, thick with something she couldn’t name, something that clung to her like damp cloth.
She lifted her head, her eyes darting to the door again. It was still closed, still silent, but the memory of that shadow—of that whisper—made her skin crawl. She couldn’t stay here. Not in this room, not tonight. She needed light, noise, something human to anchor her. Karolína’s room was too far, and she wasn’t ready to face the curator’s sharp-edged concern. But the workshop was closer, just down the hall and around the corner, past the grand staircase with its peeling gilt and sagging tapestries. Her tools were there, her work, the dolls. The thought of facing Barbora again—or any of them—made her stomach churn, but the workshop had electricity, a space heater, a lock on the door. It was something.
She pushed herself up, ignoring the ache in her legs, and grabbed her boots from beside the bed. The leather was stiff with cold as she yanked them on, not bothering with socks, not caring about the way they pinched her bare feet. Her coat hung on a hook by the door, heavy with the scent of Prague’s damp streets, and she shrugged it over her sleep shirt, the wool scratching against her skin. The flashlight she tucked into her pocket, still off, a last resort. Her phone went into the other pocket, useless as it was without signal, but its weight was a small comfort.
The door loomed in front of her, the brass knob glinting faintly in the dark. She reached for it, her hand steadier now, fueled by the need to move, to act. The metal turned with a soft click, louder than she wanted, and she eased the door open, wincing at the faint creak of the hinges. The hallway beyond was a void, the weak light from her room spilling only a few feet before being swallowed by shadow. The air out here was colder, carrying the musty bite of old plaster and something sharper, like rusted iron. She stepped out, her boots scuffing against the worn runner, and pulled the door shut behind her, the latch clicking with a finality that made her flinch.
The corridor stretched in both directions, lined with closed doors and faded portraits whose subjects seemed to watch her pass. She turned right, toward the staircase, her steps quick but soft, her breath shallow to keep from making noise. The palace was a labyrinth at night, its grand halls turned into something oppressive, the high ceilings lost in darkness, the echoes of her movements bouncing off unseen walls. She passed a window, its glass rattling faintly in the frame as a gust of wind pressed against it from outside, and caught a glimpse of snow swirling in the courtyard below, a pale, restless dance under the sodium glow of a streetlamp.
Her hand brushed the banister as she reached the staircase, the wood smooth and cold under her fingers, worn down by centuries of touch. She descended quickly, her boots tapping lightly on the steps, each sound a small betrayal in the silence. The air grew heavier as she went lower, the scent of dust mingling with something earthier, like clay or damp stone. The workshop was just beyond the landing, down a narrower hall that smelled of linseed oil and turpentine, the remnants of her day’s work. She could see the door now, a heavy slab of oak with a modern lock that gleamed incongruously against the ancient wood. Safety. Control. She focused on that, ignoring the way the shadows seemed to press closer, the way the air felt charged, like the moment before a storm.
But as she reached the bottom of the stairs, something stopped her. Not a sound, not a movement, but a feeling—a prickling at the back of her neck, a certainty that she was being watched. She turned, her hand already in her pocket, gripping the flashlight, and scanned the darkness behind her. The staircase loomed empty, its steps disappearing into shadow. The portraits on the walls stared blankly, their painted eyes lifeless. But there, at the edge of her vision, near the corner of the landing, something shifted. Not a shape she could name, not a figure she could pin down, but a ripple in the dark, a distortion that made her breath catch.
She backed away, her heel catching on the uneven floor, and nearly stumbled. Her hand yanked the flashlight free, her thumb hovering over the switch, but she didn’t press it. Not yet. Turning it on would make this real, would force her to see—or not see—what was there. Instead, she kept her eyes on that corner, on the shadow that wasn’t quite right, and moved toward the workshop door, her other hand fumbling for the key in her coat pocket. Her fingers were clumsy, slick with sweat despite the cold, and the key slipped once, twice, before she jammed it into the lock.
The shadow moved. Not closer, not toward her, but sideways, sliding along the wall like oil spreading across water. Her chest seized, her breath a ragged gasp as she twisted the key, the lock grinding with a sound that scraped against her nerves. The door swung open, the familiar smell of her workspace—porcelain dust, solvent, the faint warmth of the heater—washing over her. She stepped inside, slamming the door behind her and throwing the bolt with a trembling hand. Her back pressed against the wood, her eyes darting around the room, taking in the cluttered workbench, the shelves of tools, the tarp-covered shapes of the dolls waiting for her attention.
Barbora sat on the central table, her cracked porcelain face turned toward the door, as if she’d been waiting. The doll’s eyes, still uneven from the partial repair, caught the faint glow of the emergency exit light above the door, and for a moment, they seemed to flicker, to focus. Mira’s stomach dropped, her hand tightening on the flashlight, still unlit. She told herself it was a trick of the light, of her exhaustion, but the memory of that shadow in the hall—of that whisper in her room—clawed at her. She crossed to the heater, cranking it up until the hum filled the room, a small barrier against the silence, and flicked on every lamp, flooding the space with harsh, clinical light.
But even with the brightness, even with the door locked, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed her here. Her gaze kept returning to Barbora, to the way the doll’s delicate hands rested in her lap, fingers curled just so, as if poised to reach out. Mira’s throat tightened, a memory of her dream flashing unbidden—those same hands, or hands like them, shaping clay, pressing life into something that shouldn’t have it. She turned away, busying herself with organizing her tools, her fingers brushing over the familiar shapes of scalpels and brushes, grounding herself in their purpose.
She didn’t notice at first, not with the heater’s drone and the buzz of her own frayed nerves. But as she reached for a jar of adhesive, her hand froze. A sound—faint, almost lost under the hum—came from the other side of the door. Not a tap, not a scrape, but a sigh, soft and human, like someone exhaling after holding their breath too long. Mira’s blood ran cold, her body locking up as she stared at the door, at the thin line of shadow beneath it. She waited, her own breath held, her pulse hammering in her ears.
It came again, clearer this time, a sigh that curled into something else—a word, or the edge of one, too quiet to make out. Her hand dropped the jar, the glass clinking against the table, and she backed away, her boots scuffing on the stone floor. The lamps cast her shadow across the room, jagged and too large, and for a moment, she swore it moved on its own. The sigh came a third time, louder, closer, as if whatever was out there had pressed itself against the door, its breath seeping through the cracks.
Mira’s hand found the edge of the table, her nails digging into the wood, as she stared at the bolted door. She wanted to call out, to demand who was there, but her voice wouldn’t come. Her eyes flicked to Barbora again, to the doll’s unblinking gaze, and a sick certainty settled in her gut. Whatever was out there, it wasn’t human. Not anymore. And it wasn’t leaving until it got what it wanted.
Mira’s fingers tightened on the table edge, the rough grain biting into her skin, grounding her against the wave of panic clawing up her throat. The sigh beyond the door lingered in the air, a sound so soft it might have been her imagination if it hadn’t carried that faint, wet undertone—like lips parting after too long underwater. Her chest burned from holding her breath, and she forced herself to exhale, a shaky stream that fogged briefly in the cold of the workshop. The lamps flickered, just a heartbeat of dimness, but it was enough to make her flinch, her shadow jerking across the wall like a puppet on frayed strings. She couldn’t look away from the door, from that sliver of black beneath it where the light didn’t reach. Her mind churned through explanations—Karolína checking on her, a night guard with a bad sense of timing, a draft in this ancient pile of stone—but none of them stuck. Not with that sound. Not with the way Barbora’s painted eyes seemed to follow her every twitch, the doll’s porcelain face catching the lamplight in a way that made her mouth look wet.
She took a step back, her boot heel catching on an uneven flagstone, and the noise of it—too loud in the stillness—made her wince. The sigh didn’t come again, but the silence that replaced it was worse, heavy and expectant, like the moment before a scream. Mira’s gaze darted to the tools on the table, the fine brushes and scalpels laid out with surgical precision, and for a wild second, she considered grabbing one, arming herself against whatever was out there. But what would she do? Stab a shadow? Slice through a whisper? Her hand hovered over a narrow chisel, the metal cold under her fingertips, before she pulled back, shaking her head at herself. She was losing it. Too many hours bent over Barbora’s cracked face, too many nights in this cavern of a palace where every creak sounded like a footstep.
“Get a grip,” she muttered under her breath, the words barely audible but enough to break the silence in her own ears. Her voice sounded thin, a stranger’s, and she hated how it trembled at the edges. She forced herself to turn away from the door, to focus on the doll instead, on the familiar territory of her work. Barbora sat propped on her stand, head tilted just so, the repaired cheek smooth under the fresh glaze but the eyes—God, those eyes—still too knowing, too fixed on her. Mira’s stomach twisted as she reached for the jar of sealant she’d dropped, the glass cool and solid in her grip. She could finish this layer tonight, seal the last of the cracks before the glaze set fully. Work would steady her. Work always did.
But as she unscrewed the lid, her hands moving on autopilot, the air shifted again. Not a sound this time, but a feeling—a prickling at the nape of her neck, like the weight of a gaze pressing down. She froze, brush hovering over Barbora’s face, and risked a glance at the door through the corner of her eye. The shadow beneath it hadn’t moved, hadn’t grown or shrunk, but she swore the darkness there was deeper now, thicker, like ink pooling on wet paper. Her pulse kicked up again, a drumbeat she couldn’t ignore, and she set the brush down with a clatter, louder than she meant. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice cracking on the last word. She hadn’t meant to speak, hadn’t wanted to invite whatever it was to answer, but the question slipped out anyway, raw and desperate.
No reply. Just the hiss of her own breath and the faint hum of the lamps. She waited, every muscle coiled, her hands flat on the table now, bracing herself. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She pushed off the table, crossing the room in three quick strides, her boots echoing on the stone. The door loomed larger as she approached, the iron bolt glinting dully in the half-light. Her hand hovered over it, trembling, the cold metal a shock against her palm as she gripped it. She didn’t want to open it. Every instinct screamed at her to leave it shut, to barricade herself in with the dolls and wait for morning. But she couldn’t stay like this, trapped in her own head, imagining worse things with every passing second.
Her fingers tightened on the bolt, the rust flaking under her nails, and she slid it back with a grating screech that made her teeth ache. The door creaked as she pulled it open, just an inch at first, enough to peer into the corridor beyond. The darkness there was absolute, a wall of black that swallowed the faint spill of light from her workshop. She squinted, her breath hitching, and fumbled for the flashlight on her belt, clicking it on with a shaky thumb. The beam cut through the gloom, sharp and white, revealing nothing but empty hallway—stone walls slick with damp, the air thick with the musty smell of old plaster. No one. Nothing. Just the echo of her own breathing bouncing back at her.
She stepped out, the flashlight trembling in her grip, and swung the beam left, then right. The corridor stretched into shadow on both ends, the ceiling lost in darkness, the only sound the faint drip of water somewhere far off. Her boots scuffed against the uneven floor as she took another step, the cold seeping through her soles, and she caught a whiff of something sour, like wet wool left too long in a trunk. “Hello?” she tried again, quieter this time, her voice swallowed by the vastness of the palace. Nothing answered. But the feeling hadn’t left her—that weight on her neck, that certainty of being watched. She turned the flashlight back toward the workshop door, half-expecting to see Barbora standing there, glass eyes glinting, but the room was empty save for the doll on her stand, unchanged.
Mira backed into the workshop, her shoulder brushing the doorframe, and slammed the door shut with more force than she meant. The bolt slid home with a satisfying thunk, and she leaned against the wood, her forehead pressing into the rough surface, the cold of it grounding her. Her heart was still racing, her hands slick with sweat as she wiped them on her jeans. “You’re fine,” she told herself, the words more plea than fact. “Just tired. Just—stupid.” But even as she said it, she couldn’t shake the memory of that sigh, the way it had curled through the air like smoke. She crossed back to the table, her legs unsteady, and sank onto the stool, her hands braced on her knees. Barbora stared at her, unblinking, and for a moment, Mira swore the doll’s lips twitched, just a fraction, as if testing a smile.
She jerked back, the stool scraping against the floor, and nearly toppled over. “No,” she snapped, louder than she meant, her voice ricocheting off the walls. “No, you’re not—stop it.” She rubbed her eyes, hard enough to see sparks, and forced herself to breathe, to count the inhales until her pulse slowed. She was imagining things. Had to be. Dolls didn’t move. Dolls didn’t sigh. And yet, as she dropped her hands and met Barbora’s gaze again, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the doll knew something she didn’t. Something it wasn’t telling.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of forced focus. She didn’t touch Barbora again, couldn’t bring herself to, instead busying herself with cleaning her tools, organizing the jars of glaze and sealant, anything to keep her hands moving and her mind off the door. The lamps burned low, the light growing dimmer as the hours dragged, and the cold of the room settled deeper into her bones, her breath fogging in small, tight bursts. She didn’t hear the sigh again, didn’t feel that weight on her neck, but the unease lingered, a splinter under her skin. By the time the first gray light of dawn crept through the narrow window above her workbench, she was shaking, not from cold but from the sheer effort of holding herself together.
She stood, joints stiff, and stretched, her spine popping as she glanced at the door one last time. Still shut. Still silent. She should have felt relief, but all she felt was hollow, like something vital had been scooped out of her in the night. Her gaze drifted to Barbora, to the doll’s finished face, the glaze dry now, the cracks invisible unless you knew where to look. The work was flawless, better than she’d expected under these conditions, but looking at it didn’t bring the usual satisfaction. Instead, there was a tug in her chest, a quiet dread that coiled tighter the longer she stared. She turned away, grabbing her coat from the hook by the door, the wool heavy and damp from the room’s chill. She needed air. Needed to get out of this crypt of a workshop before it swallowed her whole.
The palace corridors were no warmer as she made her way toward the courtyard, her boots echoing in the empty halls. The air outside hit her like a slap, sharp and bitter, the sky a bruised gray that promised snow. She huddled into her coat, her breath steaming as she crossed the cobblestones, the uneven ground slick underfoot. The city beyond the palace walls was waking, the distant hum of traffic cutting through the stillness, but here, in this pocket of old Prague, time felt frozen, the baroque facades looming like silent judges. She stopped by a stone bench, the surface dusted with frost, and sat, ignoring the cold seeping through her jeans. Her hands trembled as she fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, a habit she’d mostly kicked back in Miami but had resurrected since landing in this city. The first drag burned her throat, the smoke curling into the air, and she let her head tip back, eyes half-closed against the gray light.
She didn’t hear Karolína approach until the curator was nearly on top of her, the older woman’s boots crunching on the frost. “Mira,” Karolína said, her voice rough, like she hadn’t slept either. “You look like hell.” Her coat was unbuttoned despite the cold, her scarf hanging loose, and her face was gaunt, the shadows under her eyes deeper than Mira remembered from yesterday. She held a thermos in one gloved hand, the metal dented and scratched, and offered it without a smile. “Coffee. Black. Thought you might need it.”
Mira took the thermos, the warmth of it a small mercy against her frozen fingers, and muttered a thanks. She unscrewed the lid, the bitter steam rising as she took a sip, the heat spreading through her chest. Karolína sat beside her, too close for comfort, her knee brushing Mira’s as she stared out at the courtyard, her gaze unfocused. “You were up all night,” she said, not a question. “I saw the light under your door when I left. And when I came back.”
“Yeah, well,” Mira said, her voice flat as she took another drag on the cigarette, the tip glowing briefly. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much to do.” She didn’t look at Karolína, didn’t want to see the knowing in the woman’s face, the way her sharp eyes always seemed to cut through the lies Mira told herself. But she felt the curator’s stare anyway, heavy and searching, and it made her skin prickle.
“Barbora’s done, then?” Karolína asked, her tone too casual, her fingers tightening on the edge of the bench. “You finished her?”
Mira nodded, exhaling smoke through her nose. “Yeah. She’s—done. Ready for the case, I guess.” She didn’t say how looking at the doll now made her stomach turn, how the perfection of her own work felt like a betrayal somehow. She took another sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding her, and risked a glance at Karolína. The curator’s lips were pressed thin, her jaw tight, and for a moment, Mira thought she saw something like fear flicker across her face before it smoothed over.
“Good,” Karolína said, her voice clipped. “That’s good. One down, eleven to go.” She stood abruptly, brushing frost from her coat, and turned to Mira, her expression unreadable. “I need to show you something. In the archive room. Now, before the day gets away from us.”
Mira frowned, the cigarette halfway to her mouth. “Can’t it wait? I’m—” She gestured vaguely at herself, at the exhaustion weighing her down, but Karolína shook her head, her eyes hard.
“No. It can’t. You’ll want to see this before you touch the next doll.” There was an edge to her words, a urgency that hadn’t been there before, and it sent a fresh jolt of unease through Mira’s chest. She stubbed out the cigarette on the bench, the ember hissing against the frost, and stood, the thermos still clutched in one hand. “Fine. Lead the way.”
The archive room was buried deep in the palace, a narrow space crammed with shelves of leather-bound ledgers and crumbling folios, the air thick with the smell of mildew and old ink. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows over the uneven walls, and the cold here was sharper, seeping through Mira’s coat as she followed Karolína inside. The curator moved with purpose, her gloved hands deft as she pulled a slim volume from a shelf near the back, the cover brittle and stained. She set it on a scarred wooden table, the pages crackling as she opened it, and gestured for Mira to look.
The text was in Czech, the handwriting spidery and faded, but there were sketches too—rough, ink-blotted renderings of dolls, their faces eerily familiar. Mira’s breath caught as she recognized Barbora’s sharp cheekbones, the tilt of her head, captured in jagged lines. Beside the sketch was a name, scratched in heavier ink: Barbora Kovářová, 1763. And below that, a single line in Latin, the letters uneven, like they’d been written in haste. Mira’s Latin was rusty, but she made out enough—disparuit, disappeared. Her stomach dropped, a cold weight settling there as she looked up at Karolína, whose face was grim, her mouth a tight slash.
“She didn’t just pose for him,” Karolína said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the room itself might overhear. “None of them did. They were taken. All twelve. And after the dollmaker finished his work, they were never seen again.” Her fingers hovered over the page, trembling just slightly, before she pulled her hand back, curling it into a fist. “I’ve been digging through these records for weeks. Every name inscribed in those dolls matches a woman who vanished in Prague between 1760 and 1765. No bodies. No traces. Just—gone.”
Mira’s mouth went dry, her hands gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. She thought of Barbora’s eyes, of that sigh beyond the door, of the warmth she’d felt under her fingers as she worked. “You’re saying—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard, trying again. “You’re saying he—what, killed them? Used them for—?”
“I don’t know,” Karolína cut in, sharper than she meant, her eyes flashing. “I don’t know what he did. But I know those dolls aren’t just art. They’re something else. Something wrong.” She leaned closer, her breath sour with coffee and sleeplessness, and lowered her voice further. “And I think you’ve felt it too. Haven’t you?”
Mira didn’t answer, couldn’t, her mind reeling as she stared at the sketch, at Barbora’s face staring back from the page. The weight of the night pressed down on her again, the memory of that shadow under the door, the certainty that something had been waiting for her. She wanted to deny it, to laugh it off as exhaustion or Karolína’s obsession bleeding into her own head, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she felt a crack open inside her, a fissure of doubt she couldn’t close, and as she met Karolína’s gaze, she knew the curator saw it too. Something had changed, not just in the room or in the story of the dolls, but between them—a shared fear, unspoken but undeniable, binding them to this cursed collection. And as Mira’s fingers brushed the edge of the page, the paper brittle under her touch, she felt the first stirrings of a truth she wasn’t ready to face: whatever the dollmaker had done, whatever he’d left behind in these porcelain shells, it wasn’t finished with them yet.