No more lies. No more. Maybe it’s nothing. I was cursed.
And whatever grew inside me?
It was stitching me together from the inside out.
???
After a full day scouring occult forums and attempting every banishing ritual I could find, my body trembled with exhaustion. My fingers ached from tracing protection sigils on every doorway, my throat raw from chanting prayers I hadn't uttered since childhood. The final symbol above my bed smeared as I pinned it on the wall. My hands shook so badly that I stabbed my thumb with the tack. A single drop of blood darkened the parchment.
I collapsed into bed, the memory of Montague's clinical inspection making my skin crawl. His cold fingers pried open my mouth, measuring my teeth like a dollmaker assessing porcelain.
An heir, he'd whispered. Not a child. A vessel.
The pain came without warning. It was a white-hot stab deep in my abdomen. I curled inward, knees knocking against the hardening swell of my stomach. Then the sound. Not the sharp crack of breaking bone, but something worse - the splintering snap of delicate china fracturing from within.
There was silence and relief from the pain until—
Tap.
The sound echoed through my hollow insides.
Inside the bulge.
Tap. Tap.
Each knock sent a fluttering tremor through muscles that were no longer entirely flesh. My tears fell hot against the pillowcase, but my belly remained cold and unyielding. My body was alien to me. The perfect, rounded curve of something not quite human was consuming me.
Chapter 4
Bianca
Iwas in a doll shop, inspecting the expertly crafted wooden cabinets, and I knew where I was. This was his shop and possibly his workshop. Dolls stared from every shelf, their glass eyes catching the lamplight, but it was the flash of deep burgundy that distracted me.
Angelica.
She stood apart in her glass coffin, draped in burgundy silk, her porcelain face flawless under the dust. Her hair was pristine, as were the delicate features of her face. A placard at her feet bore her name in looping script.
Melissa.
Similar to last time, raised voices accompanied the heavy boots pounding the stairs. The closer the voices got, the clearer I heard the words.
“You are bringing disgrace to the Montague name. I shall cut you off, William. Your mother and I have had enough.”
“You made your illicit fortune from the suffering of others, Father. I am making an honest living. My dolls are art.”
His father scoffed before there were more muffled words, and a door slammed shut. Out of the shop window, I saw his father leave, but he stopped before he reached his carriage. He beckoned a gaunt man with soot under his nails, pressed coins into his palm, and pointed back at the shop.
The man nodded, grinning with blackened teeth.
I ducked, my heart hammering.
He just paid an arsonist.
A father who murdered his only son. A son who sold his soul. A doll that outlived empires.
And me?
Just a woman who loved old things too much.
