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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Tor Copyright Notice

  AMONG THE DOLLS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  STARSCAPE

  Reader’s Guide

  Copyright Page

  AMONG THE DOLLS

  This can’t be happening, Vicky said to herself. It’s impossible! I must be dreaming. But it wasn’t vague like a dream. Everything was horribly clear, and all the details were perfect. She tried to fight a growing panic, which was only made worse by the deep void just ahead of her.

  Behind her, the music stopped with a sudden crash and she spun around. Beside the music box stood the aunt doll, taller than Vicky now. In the abrupt silence, Vicky simply stared at her without speaking.

  “Aha,” said the aunt doll softly, her smiling mouth not moving at all. “You are small and helpless now, I see.”

  Chapter One

  The poplar trees along the roadside shimmered in a light breeze, and there was hardly a nip in the autumn air. It was altogether a perfect day for a family outing. Certainly it did not occur to Vicky to wonder about what the approaching, more bitter season would hold for her.

  What she was thinking about more than anything else as they drove along the winding country road was the ten-speed bicycle she hoped to get for her birthday.

  Her father looked briefly back at her from the driver’s seat and smiled. “You haven’t said a word for miles, Vicky,” he said. “Something on your mind?”

  “Oh,” she said dreamily, trying not to make the hint too obvious, “I was just thinking about what a wonderful place this would be to go for rides on a brand new, ten—”

  “Wait! Stop!” her mother cried out, startling Vicky and not giving her a chance to finish. Her father pulled the car abruptly over to the side of the road where there was a hand-lettered ANTIQUES sign nailed to a tree. Vicky sighed. Her mother was always searching for old phonograph records and sheet music.

  Her father winked at Vicky. “It won’t take long,” he said, and they followed her mother up to the dilapidated wooden farmhouse that sagged behind the sign.

  It was dark inside, and there was a moldy basement smell. The room was so crowded with old dusty things that there were only a few narrow corridors for walking. While her mother rummaged through tattered piles, Vicky drifted circuitously through the dimness, trying to decide whether she wanted a yellow bike or a blue one, with racing handlebars, of course, but should the tape be—

  Suddenly, from the other side of the room, her father exclaimed over something. Her mother hurried over to him, and they exchanged a few excited whispers. The old woman who had let them in, who was so fat that her legs bent outward and she had to hobble with a cane, seemed particularly pleased about whatever it was they had noticed. Her toothless mouth puckered into a smile; she stood up a little straighter and brushed the hair out of her eyes.

  To Vicky’s relief they left the farmhouse soon after that, taking nothing with them. As they drove away Vicky caught one last glimpse of the old woman staring at them from the shadowy doorway, her wrinkled face eager with curiosity. Vicky forgot her immediately, however.

  “It really is beautiful here,” she said dreamily. “The perfect place to go for long rides on a brand new, ten-speed bike.”

  But her parents, who were now preoccupied in an odd way, did not seem to hear her.

  As her birthday approached, her parents grew more and more excited. Vicky was sure they had gotten her the bicycle. And when finally the day arrived and they told her the present was too big to wrap and had been hidden in the basement, she was certain. Hardly daring to look, she kept her eyes closed, hopping with anticipation, as they led her down the stairs.

  When she opened her eyes and saw, not the gleaming, streamlined vision she had been imagining, but a musty antique dollhouse with old-fashioned, faded furniture and dolls, her disappointment was too great to hide. Her parents beamed proudly, waiting for her to respond. All she could do was mumble something and look down at her feet.

  Vicky cried easily, and the tears started just after her father had carried the dollhouse up to her room. There it sat on the floor across from her bed. It was nearly as tall as she was, and its dark gray Mansard roof and shadowy little rooms cast an aura of gloom over her bright bedroom. All at once she realized that she would have to be alone with it at night. It was the thought of that thing watching and waiting in the darkness, even more than her disappointment about the bicycle, that suddenly brought on her tears.

  She struggled to get down her ice cream and cake while her parents asked her over and over again what was wrong. At first they seemed bewildered, then disappointed, as though it were somehow Vicky’s fault that the day had gone badly. All of Vicky’s explanations seemed childish and silly, and at last they stopped asking. Her mother took away her half-empty plate briskly, without a word. It was undoubtedly the worst birthday she had ever had.

  The dollhouse was the first thing she saw when she woke up the day after her birthday, and she turned her head quickly away from it. But, though she tried at first, the dollhouse was impossible to ignore. Not only was it so large, but now she began to be aware that it held a peculiar fascination for her.

  She looked more closely at the dolls that belonged in it. With a strange reluctance, she picked them up one by one and turned them over in her hands. There were four of them: a mother, a father, another woman, who she decided must be the aunt, and a little girl. They were all old, and somehow seemed to share the atmosphere of the house, as though they had lived in it for years and years.

  And that was what gave her the idea that what the dollhouse needed was one more doll. If there could be something new in it, something that she chose herself, then perhaps the atmosphere would change just a little. She might even dislike the house less.

  At first, her mother objected. It was always a mistake to interrupt her when she was playing the old upright piano in the kitchen, but Vicky was too hopeful of her new idea to wait.

  “But it won’t fit in with the other dolls,” her mother explained, sighing, her hands still resting on the keys. “Everything in that house is an antique, it all belongs together. Something new would destroy the atmosphere.”

  But that, of course, was just what Vicky wanted; and at last her mother relented. She gave her some money, and Vicky dashed out of the house to the strains of an impatient Chopin Waltz.

  Most of the miniature dolls in the department store resembled tall and thin young women, like fashion models. Vicky lingered over them for awhile, but at last decided against any of them. Not only did they seem to be too large, but there was also something in their blank and cold expressions that reminded her of the dolls already in the dollhouse. At last she came upon a small plastic toddler with a head too large for his body, a pathetic little face, and short, fat arms and legs. He seemed to be just the right size, and, more important, radiated innocence and a gleaming newness.

 
; When she first set him down with the other dolls in the conservatory he stood out uncomfortably, pink and shiny among the gray, dusty figures. But somehow his presence was just what she needed to overcome her repugnance. She began to give in to the pull of the dollhouse.

  And it was actually rather amusing to play with the dolls. The mother and the aunt would cook and clean; the father would read and work at his desk; the children played with their toys. They gathered around the dining room table at mealtimes, and retired to their beds at night. It was all very calm and pleasant; until one night at dinner the doll family began to fight.

  At first there were nothing but uncomfortable little squabbles. The brother would refuse to eat and the mother would send him to his room. The sister would grab one of his toys and claim it was hers. The mother would criticize the father; the aunt would complain that she was working too hard. Gradually, the quarrelsome life in the dollhouse became more dramatic, and day by day more fascinating to Vicky—especially as her own life began to change.

  School was a trial for Vicky. She was shy, and never seemed to make any friends. Home had always been the place where she could find peace and comfort. But now that was no longer true.

  One day her mother fell down the stairs, breaking her hand, and she was different after that. She couldn’t play the piano, and in her frustration began bullying Vicky’s father, who strangely enough seemed to be unable to stand up for himself. Nor would he stand up for Vicky anymore, but instead would retire to his basement study when her mother began to scold. And now she scolded and nagged more than she ever had before, criticizing Vicky about her poor grades in school, about the fact that she had no friends. It was so bad that Vicky hardly dared to approach her. Mealtimes were agony.

  As her own life became worse, the dolls’ arguments grew more intense. The mother doll began to strike the children, to throw things at them, and the daughter would scream insults back at her. The aunt would brutally scrub the children’s faces and hands and lock them in their room without supper. The mother would then berate the father, who would fling himself upon his bed and sob.

  And then the day came when Vicky brought home her report card, the worst report card she had ever received. When her mother saw what was on it, she flew into a rage and slapped Vicky across the face. She had never struck her before.

  The dollhouse that day was blurred through Vicky’s tears. Almost too miserable to play, she moved the dolls about dispiritedly, sending the daughter up to her room for throwing food, then creating a long argument between the mother and father over the lunch table, which ended in his retreating to his bed. She had just been about to take the daughter out of her room, when the sunlight coming in through the window had dimmed. Vicky looked up, then felt suddenly dizzy and closed her eyes.

  When she opened them she was inside the dollhouse.

  Chapter Two

  Vicky blinked and stood up. She knew immediately that she was in the third-floor playroom. There was the tin rocking horse she always made the brother doll ride for hours. Its back looked very sharp and uncomfortable now that she could see it better. There were the “books” she had made for them, from little folded pieces of paper; but now they were like cardboard, covered with large grainy crayon blots.

  And there was the music box, barely the size of her thumb the last time she had opened it, but now like a massive chest. It was made of ivory, and the carving, which had seemed so delicate, was actually rather crude and uneven. The little tinkling melody it played over and over again was her favorite song, and suddenly she wanted to hear it. She was frightened, of course, and the familiarity of the unchanging tune might comfort her. She pushed open the box, and the music began.

  But it was different now, clanging and blurred and painfully loud, like being on the inside of a ringing bell. And the tune was hardly recognizable, a raucous mockery of its former sweetness. She had to stop it! But the top was caught somehow; she couldn’t move it at all. Her hands on her ears, she backed away, then turned to run from the terrible sounds.

  But she froze before taking even one step. Now she was facing the edge of the house, where the room simply ended and there was nothing but empty space plunging all the way down to the floor of her room. It was like being in a house that had been neatly sliced down the middle by a gigantic cleaver. She didn’t dare get any closer to the edge, but stood and stared off into her room, the horrible music banging and bonging behind her.

  Everything was the same, but gigantic. The rug was a thick forest spread out far below her, her bed a steep plateau, and the doorway on the other side of the room was fuzzy with distance, rising up to a ceiling she could not even see.

  This can’t be happening, she said to herself. It’s impossible! I must be dreaming. But it wasn’t vague like a dream. Everything was horribly clear, and all the details were perfect. She tried to fight a growing panic, which was only made worse by the deep void just ahead of her. This can’t be happening, she thought again, uselessly. I’ve got to make it go away! How can I make it go away?

  Behind her, the music stopped with a sudden crash and she spun around. Beside the music box stood the aunt doll, taller than Vicky now. In the abrupt silence, Vicky simply stared at her without speaking. The doll’s black hair, pulled back tightly in a knot at the back of her head, was now like thick rope. The stitches on her floor-length black dress were wide and uneven. Her painted features were chipped in places, giving her smile a strange twisted look. Her lashless eyes were amazingly large, almost circles, opened wide, a black pupil isolated in the center of each.

  “Aha,” said the aunt doll softly, her smiling mouth not moving at all. “You are small and helpless now, I see.”

  Chapter Three

  “Wh-what?” Vicky said. “What do you mean?” She could not take her eyes from the doll’s face. It seemed impossible that a voice could come from that painted mask. But it did come, quiet and dark and cold.

  “You shall see,” she said. “Come with me to the dining room.”

  Vicky followed her through the doorway to the stairway in the center of the house. She had never noticed how steep it was; it was very dark, and the going was difficult. She hardly dared to think what would happen if she should slip and bump against the aunt, who was bobbing stiffly down just ahead of her.

  From the third floor they descended past the living room and the conservatory, with its potted palms, on the second. Down another flight of stairs they came to the dining room, which shared the first floor with the kitchen.

  She expected to see all the dolls sitting around the table. Then she remembered that she had put the father in his bedroom (he was probably still lying on the bed and crying), and shut the daughter up in hers. The aunt stepped through the dining room doorway ahead of her, then turned back, and with her hard wooden hand on Vicky’s neck, pushed her into the room. “Look who we have here,” she said.

  The mother sat at one end of the long table. Her hair was in its usual disarray, the pinkish-blonde curls floating stiffly around her cherubic face with its little red dot of a mouth, round cheeks, and innocent blue eyes. Beside her sat the brother, staring down at his plate.

  “Well!” said the mother doll, and hid her face for a moment, giggling. A few strands of her quivering hair fell down onto her plate. “Well!” she repeated, looking up again. “Don’t just stand there staring at me like an imbecile! Sit down, sit down!” Her voice was piercing and quick, like a record played too fast. “Dandaroo! Arrange a chair for our guest.”

  Silently, still not looking up, the brother rose and pulled out the chair beside him. The painted features on his flat plastic face were already beginning to fade from the repeated rough washings administered by the aunt, giving him a curiously noseless appearance. His head was as large as his torso, and his short, plump legs had no knees. Uncomfortably, Vicky sat down. The mother’s behavior was disturbing; and her strident, harsh manner was made all the more eerie by her unchanging expression of angelic idiocy.

 
“You sit down too, Diadama,” she squealed at the aunt. “We have lots and lots to talk about. You know we do.

  “Now,” said the mother, turning back to Vicky, “I would offer you something to eat but of course there isn’t anything, except that revolting plaster turkey that’s been sitting in the middle of the table for years. You may have some of that if you’d like.”

  “Er, no thank you,” Vicky said timidly.

  “No, of course there isn’t anything to eat,” the mother went on as if she hadn’t heard her, “because you know as well as I do that dolls can’t eat. Yet day after day here we sit in front of these empty plates, staring at that beastly turkey and bickering with each other, endlessly bickering. And why? I’ll tell you why, my dear little girl. Because you make us!”

  “I—”said Vicky.

  “Do not interrupt, child,” said the aunt in her cold voice. “Remember, you are small and helpless now.”

  “But—” said Vicky.

  “Not to mention all the other things you make us do,” the mother continued. “The way we have to lie in those beds for endless hours every night. The way we have to stand in that meaningless kitchen, cooking with empty pots. And the way you make us fight all the time, and lock each other in our rooms. Not that I haven’t begun to enjoy—” Suddenly she looked toward the door. “Why, Quimbee,” she said. “Tired of sulking? Then come in and sit down. Look who’s here.”

  Naturally she wouldn’t have heard the father doll coming downstairs, Vicky realized as he sat down meekly beside the mother. Unlike the aunt and the mother, who were wooden, or the plastic son, the father doll was soft. His arms and legs were nothing but pipe cleaners; his head and body simply wads of cotton with cloth wrapped tightly around them. His face was stitched with thread—the prim pink line of his mouth, the thin black mustache, the vacant brown knots that were his eyes. He wore a black suit, and nothing protruded from the ends of his tubular sleeves and trousers, for they had been made just long enough to conceal the fact that he had no hands or feet.