The Dollmakers by Lynn Buchanan

Author:Lynn Buchanan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2024-05-21T00:00:00+00:00

“I . . . I thought that was how it worked. Doesn’t an apprentice learn how to make dolls, and then what license they’re given depends on what their dolls are like?” As she spoke she looked at Silver. To Shean’s annoyance, he nodded.

“But that . . .” Shean started, protest trailing off as she realized what Dola said was, technically, true. She pursed her lips. “Most apprentices know what they want their dolls to be. It gives them a goal to work toward, an artistic vision to emulate.”

Dola’s brow furrowed. “But what if I think my dolls are one thing, but they’re not? Isn’t it better to just want my dolls to help people?”

Shean opened her mouth. No words came out. She shut it again, tried to think of a good argument because there was an argument to be had—what Dola was saying was simplistic. After a minute of struggle, though, Shean couldn’t think of any point to make that didn’t sound like petulant whining. So she said, lamely, “Yes. I suppose it is.”

Dola smiled. “Then that’s what I want.”

The girl’s certainty was unsettling. And foolish. Without a more specific goal, Dola’s journey as a dollmaker (assuming she passed the Breath Mark exams) would be drifting and confused. If she didn’t aim toward guardhood or artistic craft, there would be no guide for her to follow when she began to design her own dolls. Shean had studied Nock’s dolls, as well as designs drawn by her brother and parents, when making her first dolls; it was a combination of their styles, and her own personal flair (earned through relentless practice and work), that’d resulted in her current arsenal of dolls. Including Silver—Silver more than any doll, in fact, showcased years of imitation leading to personal discovery and design.

But what would a dollmaker apprentice with no ambition, no desire to make one type of doll or the other, do when learning to make her own dolls? What models would she use to propel her to success? And what success was there to be had, if she had no idea what it was she even wanted, what goal she was even working toward? That way of thinking wasn’t logical. Or normal.

That way of thinking made Shean uncomfortable.

Before Shean could say as much, a crashing came from the forest called Deep. A cacophony of cracks and thrashes, like a bear blundering, blind and enraged, through the undergrowth. Shean leapt to her feet, Dola and Silver joining her as a figure broke from the trees, bursting into view in a shower of leaves and branches. Lintok reared at the unexpected arrival, letting out a warning bark, the whites of his eyes showing with surprise.

The figure staggered a step and paused, panting, and Shean recognized Roque. He looked more flustered than she’d thought him capable of—lips a strained line, cheeks flushed, hair in disarray, and the neat tuck of his tunic coming undone. Lintok was still kicking, spooked to a degree Shean had never seen before and tossing his head with dismay.

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