The Dollhouse Romance

by Emily Asad

  “We said our vows before Artemis.”

  “That’s it? Just words, no…” I blush, hoping he’ll catch my meaning so I don’t have to ask about the honeymoon.

  “Sealed our vows with a kiss.”

  I shiver – maybe David’s right and I could still get stuck here. Phoebe’s curse turns love into a dangerous trap.

  “It worked both ways – Alexis took on your fate, too. You’re a doll. That’s why she turned wooden when she tried to bring your brother back. If she wasn’t wearing her ring, she couldn’t leave this house any more than you could.”

  The agony on his face makes me ache for him. “It’s my fault. I’ve known it all along.”

  “Then why did you tell everyone it’s the amount of time a person spends in this house that turns them into prisoners? I’ve been scared to death each time I visit. Your father, too – he always hurries me out.”

  “How could I tell my family I was responsible for killing the person I loved?”

  “She’s not dead. She was in Phoebe’s room, on a shelf. With your baby brother. I brought them here, but I don’t know if it’s too late…”

  He rises, scattering papers everywhere. “You found them?”

  The desperate hope in his eyes terrifies me. What if I’m giving him false hope? What if I can’t turn Alexis human again?

  I’d give anything to know where Mamá was, no matter the outcome…

  I pat his arm. “Be right back.”

  I pop out of the dollhouse so I’m normal-sized again, and then tiptoe through the sparkles over to the shelf where Alexis and Baby John sit in thick silence. There’s no response from them, even when I clutch their wooden waists and carry them toward the dollhouse. When we pass into the green dome, Baby John begins to emanate curiosity. Alexis is still as blank as a real doll.

  In order to keep them the right size, I have to put them into the dollhouse directly. So I tug the dollhouse open as slowly as I can, careful to not awaken the rest of the family. Then I lay Alexis on Henry’s bed with Baby John next to her.

  Henry takes her wooden hand and kneels beside her.

  Nothing happens.

  But I didn’t expect it to. I’m pretty sure the person who’s playing with the dolls has to be part of the play, so I close the dollhouse and pop into Henry’s room.

  As soon as I’m standing there, John turns pink and breaks into shrill cries. It’s the happiest racket I’ve ever heard. I pick him up so Henry can focus on Alexis.

  “She’s not moving,” he says.

  She’s flesh and blood now, but her eyes remain wide open and unblinking. Is she in a coma? Is she… dead?

  “Maybe a kiss breaks the spell?” I suggest. “Like a fairy tale?”

  Henry plants a gentle kiss on her lips.

  Still nothing.

  Baby John continues to cry, bringing Eleanor into the room. “What on earth…?” She utters a cry of her own when she sees him in my arms.

  A woman’s voice, weak and raspy, calls, “Henry?”

  “Alexis!”

  Alexis seems dazed, as if she thinks she’s in a dream. Henry assures her it’s very much real, and then they hug as if they’ll never let go of each other.

  George and David aren’t far behind.

  Joyful chaos fills the room.

  It’s several minutes before I can explain why I acted on my hunch. “It’s pretty simple, actually. Phoebe didn’t complete the play. Her father put you two back in the house, expecting you to come back to life, right? But he’s not Phoebe. He’s not even Artemic. And most likely, he wasn’t using his imagination to play. If Phoebe had done it, you’d have been fine.”

  “You don’t look Artemic,” Alexis says. “Have we met?”

  I peel off my bandage, which Amelia suggested I keep wearing in case the Ambassador ever recognizes the ring. “Your ring attacked me. Do you… want it back?”

  “I think I’ll stay here for a while,” she says, turning to Henry.

  He kisses her hair, promising to never let her out of his sight again.

  “Why did you take it off?” George asks her softly.

  “I thought it could help me force Daddy’s hand. He wanted us to wait to get married until Phoebe broke the spell. It didn’t seem like she’d ever grow up, so…”

  “So you tied it to your pillow for safekeeping,” I say.

  She nods. “I was going to tell him about it, but I never got the chance.”

  “You’re a hero,” David tells me.

  I look around the crowded room. “Where’s Nathaniel? Doesn’t he want to say hello?”

  “He’ll sleep through anything,” George says. “I’ll go get him.”

  Nathaniel stumbles in, groggy. Eleanor puts his little brother in his arms. He’s all smiles until the stench of poopy diapers fills the air. Disgusted, he passes Baby John back to Eleanor.

  Alexis catches my sleeve. “How is my sister doing?”

  “She’s growing.” I tell everyone about how tall she’s getting, and how she’s figuring out how to make things bigger. “She knows as much about building houses as you do, George. You should see the one she made today. I taught her everything you taught me and she figured out the rest. Maybe she could be your apprentice, too?”

  “I’m not teaching that little witch anything,” he spits. “If she so much as sends a sparkle my way, I’ll… I’ll…” He catches Eleanor’s eye. His fury subsides when she passes Baby John to him. He doesn’t flinch at the stench. Instead, his voice grows soft. “I’ll be giving my son a bath.”

  I know George hates Phoebe for destroying his family, but I hadn’t realized how much. Eleanor trails after them as if she can’t handle another minute apart from her youngest son.

  “Now that you’re here, I can stand another century,” Henry murmurs to Alexis.

  “It might be sooner than you think,” I tell the brothers. “Phoebe’s getting better.”

  “Maybe,” David says. “But will it be enough? What if this is where she stops?”

  “Give it time.”

  “We’ve given her a century,” he spits. “How much more does she need?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:

  DEVELOPING

  In less than a week, Phoebe completes eight dollhouses. Eight of them. It’s taken me five weeks to frame my roof, weatherproof my exterior, and install my flooring, and that’s with the help of three muscular brothers who help me lift the heavy stuff. Phoebe’s got the definite advantage in being able to shrink and resize her materials.

  Her progress mesmerizes me. The first few dollhouses she built were old-fashioned and huge, the way Victorian mansions might have been a hundred years ago. But she seems to be moving though the timeline and cutting down on square footage. She’s modernizing her use for appliances, too. The first kitchen was enormous with its butlery, pantry and scullery, whereas yesterday’s new kitchen uses a tiny microwave and a half-refrigerator. Any day now, she’ll start designing her own Tiny House. I can’t wait to help with that.

  I find her hunched over a blueprint of her own making, surrounded by stacks of miniature planks, buckets of tiny nails, and piles of teensy shingles. She clears a space for me to sit. “I researched those Tiny Houses you told me about. They even have online tutorials that show you how to build them.”

  “These are your new supplies?”

  “Gary brought them upstairs.”

  “That’s a lot of carrying. He must be exhausted.”

  She looks troubled. “I never thought of that. You’re right. It was probably heavy work. I didn’t even say thank you. I never do.” She shakes her head. “I’m still a horrible person.”

  “You’re learning. I like who you’re becoming.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Daddy tried to visit last night. Again. I had to throw a tantrum to keep him from seeing me. I felt like I was lying, and lying is really bad for Artemics. It ages us, but not in a good way. In a suck-your-health-away way.”
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  “I thought he was leaving for a few weeks.”

  “He is. Tomorrow. He’ll be back for Christmas.” She leans forward, worried. “So I have to get as big as I can, to prove this isn’t just a random growth spurt. It has to be real.”

  I tap her blueprint. “It’s real, kiddo. You’re doing important work.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been researching the kinds of tiny homes I can build here on the property. Did you know there’s a whole lifestyle around these things? They may be cute, but they’re more than just wood and nails. Did you know there are laws in this country that forbid people from building too small? I think it’s because construction companies form a powerful lobby, and they want to make as much money as possible. Bigger houses mean bigger profit, plus more taxes. Taxes pay for roads, sewage, and education, among other things. Small houses don’t bring in much money for a county, so they’re illegal. Tiny Housers get around that restriction by building their homes on wheels so they fall under the regulation of the Department of Transportation.”

  For the first time since we met, I can hear the centuries in her voice. “Well, you’ve got plenty of land out there to park your Tiny House on, so it won’t be a problem. What did you settle on?”

  “Standard 8x24. I wanted to do an 8x40, but Daddy’s pickup truck will only haul ten thousand pounds.”

  “Not bad. For a ten-year-old.” I sigh.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  I shrug. “It’s perfect.”

  “No, really. You have to tell me. I’m bad at reading people, and I don’t want to commit any more crimes against humanity. You sound sad. Did I do that?”

  Her earnest anxiety makes me ashamed of my jealousy. “It’s just that… I dreamed about Tiny Houses for years. You’ve only known about them for a week - and you’re already planning. Without me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s your house to build, so it should be your design.” I paste on a smile. “Besides, I’m building one of my own. The Suitcase, down at the stables.” I don’t clarify which stables. She doesn’t need to know. “It was silly to think we could make another one of my models come true. Who needs two, anyway?”

  She fiddles with her hammer. “Gosh. I didn’t realize this was so special to you. And now I feel awful, because I’m already finished.”

  “You’re never done. There’s always something to change.”

  “Not designing. Building.”

  She lifts the blueprint off the floor, revealing a shoebox-sized Tiny House with a rounded roof and a bright purple door. It’s a perfect miniature of the Lilypad, one of the Tiny Houses I told her to research.

  “You had me going for a minute.” I peep through its windows. “Cool model.”

  “It’s not a model. It’s real. I just made it doll-sized to check my technique since it’s my first attempt. I’ll bring it up to full-size after I finish painting it. My ceiling’s high enough.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I have enough supplies to make a few more.”

  I snort. “Of course you do.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “Frankly, yes. These homes cost you nothing. Nothing. Not money, not worry. Not even time. They’re easy for you.”

  “So you’re jealous of my powers?”

  “That’s not it. I don’t think you deserve a Tiny Home. You don’t understand its value. To you, it’s a hobby. Another toy.”

  “What’s it supposed to be?”

  How can I tell her about all the times I’ve had to move, or all the crappy places I’ve had to live in? All the worry that comes from changing our address and losing mail and learning to walk a new route to school? “It’s about securing the future,” I reply, not that she’ll understand what I’m talking about. “Go ahead and show me your Lilypad.”

  “Want to come inside? I can take you there.” She holds out her hand.

  “I’m not getting in that thing.”

  “Oh, come on. I’ve gotten really good at shrinking and resizing. Come on. I promise you won’t get trapped.”

  “About that. I heard that the Whitmans got stuck forever. How did your friends get out when the Whitmans couldn’t?”

  “No, they never went inside. We played with it open, like it was an actual dollhouse. I was the only one who could go in, so I’d show them my costumes and gadgets. When I visited, the Whitmans would come to life. It was a lot of fun!”

  She’s grinning.

  “Not for the Whitmans,” I say. “They’ve really suffered. I mean, they must have really suffered.”

  Her grin disappears. “I know. I wish I could make it right. But will you come now?”

  I think about what George said: if anything happens to me, they’d starve to death. But I don’t see a sphere around the tiny house. In fact, nothing glitters. Nothing at all.

  “So you’ve never resized a human, then?”

  “Not yet. Just myself.”

  “I guess someone has to be the first.” I close my eyes and take her hand.

  Green sparkles.

  When I open my eyes, I’m standing outside the Lilypad’s famous purple door.

  Phoebe’s inside. “You have to knock,” she calls.

  I play along. When she opens the door, the sharp scent of wood stain tickles my nose. Being inside a Tiny House feels more claustrophobic than I anticipated, but also cozy and snug. I love how I can look all the way up to the high ceiling overhead. It makes the whole area seem more spacious.

  “I settled on a denatured alcohol stove instead of the standard RV-sized oven,” she says as she guides me through her kitchen. “Renewable resources. Better for the planet.”

  “And yet you’re using a standard flush toilet,” I note, pushing open her bathroom door. “I settled on a composting toilet.”

  She makes a face. “Have you tried it yet?”

  “You mean, does it stink? Not yet. I just toss sawdust over the waste when I’m done. I wanted a Nature’s Head composter, but it was expensive. So I’m just using a bucket.”

  “I read about that,” she tells me. “Humanure. It’s supposed to turn into soil so you can garden with it. Gross. I’ll keep my regular toilet, thank you.”

  “Your house, your toilet.”

  “What about the rest of my house, though?”

  “It’s gorgeous.” I give her a high-five. “We’ll have to do a tea party here when you finish. I’ll sew some curtains for a house-warming present.”

  She climbs onto the raised platform where her bed’s mattress will go. “I can’t believe I never thought of this before. I should have been building my own houses instead of shrinking other people’s property.”

  We sit on her loft for a while, staring across at her little playroom. But she starts to squirm. Her flush-toilet isn’t hooked up to plumbing yet. “Time to go,” I joke. “Think us out of here, or whatever it is you do.”

  I cringe as she takes my hand. She’s famous for shrinking things, not resizing them. Then my worst fear comes true – she pops outside the Tiny House and leaves me there in the Lilypad.

  I’m stuck!

  I’m as tiny as a Whitman!

  I dash out of the Lilypad and land on the Phoebe’s giant rug. All I can see are her socks. I have to tilt my head way, way back to look up into her enormous face.

  She frowns and gets down on her knees. “What happened?”

  “Get back here and try again,” I shout, trying not to hyperventilate.

  Under the bandage, my ring begins to burn. If I’m immune to her powers like David thinks, how was she able to shrink me? Did I shrink myself? No, I don’t have magic of my own. I’m just impervious to it. My own imagination is working against me.

  “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she blubbers as she appears next to the purple door beside me. “I was sure I knew how to get you big again.”

  “You do,” I say through clenched teeth. “Let’s try again.”

  I won’t tell her it�
�s my own fault for doubting her. I imagined she wouldn’t be able to get me out, so it came true. Believe, I chant to myself.

  Her cold little fingers close around mine. I hold on tight, imagining myself big again.

  Oh, thank God.

  It works.

  We’re one step closer to getting the Whitmans free, if she can make them bigger.

  She hugs me so tight around my waist I can barely breathe. I pat her back and tell her I forgive her. Then I step on a nail and start hopping around the room trying to avoid all her piles of supplies.

  “I can’t do anything right today!” she wails. “I’ll never, never grow up!”

  “Calm down. It didn’t even break my skin. You know, I remember reading somewhere the Amish don’t use nails. They use wooden plugs or jigsaw cuts to keep their joints together. Makes everything more seamless.”

  “Seamless… I could do that, too. From one piece of wood. I could grow my own houses. Wood’s my element, after all.” Then her lips part in surprise. For a split second, she stops breathing, and then takes in a breath so sharp it nearly whistles.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned.

  “Nothing. Everything’s right – I just figured out what I’m supposed to give the world. My element is wood, right? And I love tiny houses. This is it, Zenia! My salvation and my gift. Tiny Houses!” She’s bouncing so hard, a stack of planks falls over. Then she stops bouncing and starts to squirm. “Ouch.”

  “Now what’s wrong?”

  She glances down at her chest, her face easing in sudden understanding. “Apparently I’m making good choices. Look. I’m getting boobs!”

  I stifle my laughter. “Artemic puberty, huh? Don’t show me. Let’s go find you a bra.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:

  STUNTED

  Thanksgiving arrives, so cold and snowy even a mug of steaming apple cider at breakfast doesn’t do much to warm up my icy fingers. I miss my tropical Paraguay on days like these, with its bright sunshine and shirt-soaking humidity. Still, even though Alexis’ suite is the coldest in the mansion, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.