House Of Gord Dollmaker -

The ballroom was silent except for the soft, hydraulic hiss of polished chrome pistons. Velvet ropes cordoned off the center of the floor, where a single spotlight fell upon a rotating dais.

One of the guests, a woman in diamonds, leaned forward. “Is she… is she aware?”

“Awareness is a flaw, madam. I have removed all flaws.” He tapped a small brass key on the back of the doll’s neck. “But she dreams. The bellows see to that. Every breath is a little sigh of contentment. She thinks she is pouring tea for angels.” House Of Gord Dollmaker

The Dollmaker turned the key. The doll’s head rotated 180 degrees with a perfect, ratcheted tick . Her empty eyes now stared straight at the woman in diamonds.

She wore a maid’s cap, starched white, tilted at a jaunty angle. The ballroom was silent except for the soft,

With a soft click , her spine straightened three degrees. Her gloved fingers, frozen mid-gesture over an invisible tea tray, twitched once and then held.

The Dollmaker finally looked up. He smiled—thin, dry, avuncular. “Is she… is she aware

“Would you like a closer look?” the Dollmaker asked. “I have another piece in the workshop. One that smiles.”