Chapter 1 – The Doll in the Dust
Part II: Scratches Beneath the Floorboards
The doll lay on its side.
Its dress, layered in black lace and tightly cinched at the bodice with a silk ribbon gone grey with age, spread out around it like wilted petals. Morrigan could see now that the fabric had once been finely embroidered, delicate silver threads curling through the skirt in spiral sigils and broken patterns she didn't recognize.
Her hands stayed frozen where they were—one braced on her cane, the other hovering inches above the doll's porcelain shoulder. Her breath came in shallow, tight draws, each one fogging the air as if winter had crept indoors. The fire hadn't been lit for days, and now she felt its absence like a hand pressing between her shoulder blades.
She moved, at last, slowly and with the careful coordination that had become second nature after years of fighting pain. Her cane tapped softly as she shifted to sit fully upright, bones aching from the kneeling. The doll's eyes, though glassy and fixed, still felt as though they were watching her. That sense had not faded—not even slightly.
Her fingers closed around the edge of the lace dress, and she turned the doll face-up again.
This time, the movement was stiff—resisting, almost. Or maybe she imagined that. But the lace caught on her fingers, clinging like cobwebs, refusing to lift entirely. She yanked just hard enough to free it, and the veil snapped away, drifting down around the doll's narrow throat like a scarf.
Underneath: nothing new.
Same face. Same eyes. Same expression. Same creeping feeling, like someone had exhaled just behind her ear.
She should have hidden it away. She should have dropped it back into the hollow beneath the boards, nailed the plank shut, covered it with salt, and never spoken of it again.
But she didn't.
Instead, she cradled the doll in both arms, standing with a faint grunt and wobble, then turned to face the empty hearth. Her cane found the floor with a soft tak, grounding her again. The silence stretched out. The house seemed to watch.
"I'm just tired," she said aloud. Her voice cracked.
She hadn't meant to speak. It came out strange. Brittle. Like a sound trying to remember how to be a word.
Her gaze flicked to the spot near the fireplace where she'd heard the noise—the small disturbance behind her earlier. The stone there looked... different. The soot on the bricks had been smudged, not by her. A smear, as though someone had pressed a palm there. Or leaned close.
The doll was cool in her arms. It fit perfectly between her elbow and side, like something that had been carved to match her shape.
She hated that it felt natural.
"I'll put you somewhere safe," she said, still not certain who she was talking to—herself or the thing. "Just until I understand."
The doll said nothing. But as she turned to leave the parlor, she could have sworn she felt a faint pressure against her ribs—light, like a breath or the twitch of a dream.
She climbed the stairs slower than usual. The ache in her spine had deepened with the cold, turning sharp in the lower vertebrae, but she gritted her teeth and endured. The second floor creaked louder at night. She'd always hated that. Especially the way the floor sang under her weight—a different groan for each footfall.
The door to her bedroom hung slightly ajar. She hadn't left it that way.
She hesitated on the threshold, breath caught between her ribs.
"House is just shifting," she muttered, though it rang hollow even to her. "You know how it is."
The shadows in her room didn't stir. The air inside was close, still, and smelled faintly of lavender sachets gone stale and parchment. The walls were papered in a faded print—roses and thorny vines, nearly invisible now—and the ceiling bore long water stains that twisted like veins.
She crossed to her writing desk and set the doll down gently.
It sat upright without help.
That alone made her take a step back.
No. No, it must've been the way she positioned it. The folds in the dress giving structure. A trick of posture, not intent.
Still, she turned it slightly, so it no longer faced her directly. The black eyes looked toward the window now, catching the low light from the overcast afternoon. Even like that, she could feel it behind her. Watching.
She sat on the edge of the bed, cane balanced across her knees, and exhaled.
Her mind was full of white noise. Images pressed against the edge of thought—her mother, reading aloud from a thick book of fairy tales, pausing over the ones about dolls and spirits. A single phrase stood out, sharp as glass: Never speak your true name to a vessel with eyes.
Too late for that now.
She glanced at the doll. Its head hadn't moved.
Of course it hadn't.
She laid back against the quilt, every joint in her spine protesting in a familiar chorus. The ache was everywhere now, a dull fire behind her ribs, in her hips, coiling low and slow in her neck.
It had spoken. She had heard it. She wasn't the sort to imagine things—not anymore. The pain kept her grounded, sharp. She didn't drift, not like other girls. She didn't have the luxury.
Still, the doll had spoken.
Her name.
How?
And why?
The wind picked up outside, whistling through the eaves. A shutter clacked against the stone wall. The crows cried out, agitated, fluttering as one. Morrigan turned her head slightly toward the sound.
Her gaze caught the mirror on the far wall.
For one blink-long moment, she thought she saw the doll's reflection in it. Not on the desk where she'd left it—but perched on the edge of her bed, legs dangling, face tilted toward her, lips parted in a frozen hush.
She blinked again.
Gone.
Just the room. The desk. The dark blur of the doll where she had placed it.
Morrigan didn't speak.
She simply reached for her shawl, curled deeper into it, and lay very still.
And in the silence, just beneath the noise of the wind, she thought she heard it again—low, tender, and patient:
"Morrigan."