The town smelled of linseed oil and the houses were a faded cream with rough stone arches, the doors on them were made of wrought iron in the more ornate shapes. In the middle of town was an atelier, and in the atelier was a doll named Daphne. Daphne was not made with a face, nor was she the black lacquer and swirling tin that was popular for dolls her age. She was made of linen and unvarnished wood, her joints did not have skin to cover them, and she looked like the mannequins who stood in the display.
Daphne would tend to them, change out the items on display once a week, she would help carry darts of fabric to the seamstresses, help them starch the new works, and tie bows on boxes when the dress is to be sent away by post. So that the artisans could spend their time in art. It was a delight for the patrons to see the wooden girl tend to the shop, in clothes the seamstresses made.
The town’s sky was more clear than not, and the proprietress would have her deliver the orders for the townsfolk, her arms were lighter than the other dolls, and so were her legs, and the weave was heavy and she carried it in a walk when the other dolls from other towns would seem to float above the cobblestone.
Daphne kept a chest, behind the shelves of thread and dye where the proprietress let her stay.
At the end of each day she would write into it like you or I write to a diary, she would write about the weight of a dart when an order is overdue, the sound of rain dropping on the shop’s awning, and the way a silver necklace looked on a customer. She would fold these memories small and put them in the chest for safekeeping. And then, she would fall asleep next to it, waiting for the proprietress to wind her up in the morning.
In the same town was Penn, named after his mother Penelope, he worked as an apprentice in the town’s museum, where he would put the town’s memories in the right storerooms and would arrange their placements on display. He carved, in his own time, and would make trinkets of the locomotives and spinning mules to give to children, so they would remember how the town was made. The curator did not protest, the curator did not say many things. He walked at the edges of town when he did not have to work, and carried a sketchbook to remember the next carving’s form. He was sure that keeping in the museum for too long would make him think of but the museum.
One day, the atelier was closed, and the proprietress sent Daphne to help in the museum, the curator had her hang paintings from the old collection, made when the town was but a village and before the steamships came. Penn buried his head to grease an old gear so the old machine could move again.
He had heard someone hang three paintings before he said a thing.
Shame they had to put the carved frame to the warehouse, the new tin ones do not compare.
He had said it to the old machine, and did not know that Daphne was wooden.
She came forward and untangled a thread on the shuttle, there was more than enough grease.
He came to the atelier, even though he had no use for ribbons and dresses and stockings, and he would browse with distracted eyes when Daphne was at the counter. The proprietress noticed that when she is out delivering an order, he would only look through the window as he walked by slow. The proprietress did not say anything.
He was dismissed for lunch when he gave her a box with little compartments, because he had seen the notions that laid about the counter along with the scissors and ribbons and thought he could help. The box was a pine that was unvarnished like her, and lined with mismatched velvet and linseed oil at the hinges, so it was quiet enough to use when a customer is in the room.
Behind the shelves of thread and dye where the proprietresses let her stay, she could be seen cutting squares off of scraps and patching a cotton shirt. The left-hand cuff had a button that was a hint bigger than the rest.
One day, the proprietress saw Penn walk slowly along the window and turn in at the door, with his cap in his hand. He had come in to ask if Miss Daphne would be free Friday afternoon, that he would like to take her to ride the new Funicular to the town on the mountain. The proprietress did not say many things, but had sent him away, not to return until Friday noon.
That night, as Daphne was writing into her chest, the proprietress had told her about the boy that visited, and Daphne pulled a length of red yarn to tie around her finger, and in her diary in large print she wrote down the date for the Daphne in the morning.
For Friday morning, the proprietress had Daphne leave the boxes in waiting, and to press the dresses the shop had made. She made sure there was not a crease on any that the proprietress had asked for. She had come back an hour before noon, and Daphne had just finished the task.
The proprietress then asked Daphne to follow her to the workshop, and to bring with her the dresses pressed that morning. She had Daphne put on the dresses, which were sized for the mannequins on the windowsill and so was slightly tight for her at the waist and slightly loose for her at the bust. She asked her to pick one and she chose the one dyed with hawthorne leaf. A seamstress chalked where the dress had to be altered and started the sewing machine.
One of the other seamstresses looked at the swatch and picked out a felt hat for her, in the same shade as her dress, and another decided to pin three feathers to the ribbon.
It was ten minutes to noon when the dress was ready, and Daphne was showing the proprietress her ensemble when she opened her compact.
And a hint of blush was applied where the cheeks would be, if Daphne had cheeks.
The church bell rang, and Penn thought she was the fairest maiden in the world.
They walked along the lake next to the mountainside town, she stayed on the drier side, for she was not made to be wet. The funicular suggested mineral notes to Penn, and had a vitality not quite like the machines Daphne was surrounded by. She leaned in close to a patch of myrtle just off the path even though she had no nose to take it in. Penn took out his sketchbook and drew a woman smelling a flower, her face hidden behind her hat.
The same hat would buy her modesty in a moment’s time, and his hand lifting her chin.
Daphne had to wait until Monday to buy a new bottle of ink.
Mother, I have fallen in love with the doll from the boutique, and intend to marry her. Not to worry, she has a steady constitution like yours, and will make a good wife. — Penn
They made a home in a small house which nestled itself among other small houses on a winding cobblestone path, he brought in his chisels and brushes and pencils, she brought her pincushion and books and her chest. The chest was old and worn, with chipping at the edges and cracks in the paint, Daphne was careful, but it had a long life. On the first nights, she oiled his shoes and sharpened his pencils, and he put in metal corners and painted her chest with the finest brush. She would read to him the old records and new essays the museum had him read, until her spring gave out or until he fell asleep.
He would wind her up in the morning, twisting the key at the small of her back until she came back to life, and trace the line of her featureless jaw to wake her up.
One morning, she dressed him for a meeting with a bishop and had to away for the shop, he knelt down and kissed the lock on her chest, then stood up and set for the museum.
Penn soon took over the museum, short-staffed as it was, but Daphne chose for them to stay on the winding cobblestone path. She would read to him the leaflets from the capital, and dictate for him his responses. The museum became quite lively with guests to entertain and conversations to be had. She kept his time so he could still carve.
It was a delight for the patrons to see the wooden girl tend to the museum, in clothes that she herself made.
One evening, as he was oiling her joints, she asked if he could carve. On her finger, enough room to set a golden band.
He sat with her left hand in both of his while the fire cracked, his fingers traced the way the joint was made, and where the grain flowed.
Yes, we can.
She stayed very still as he worked his gouge, as it entered her wood and took away little bits of herself, the room made for other things, it was midnight when he warmed the chunk of gold by the fire, and slowly hammered it into place.
He traced his finger on hers, it sat perfectly flush.
He kept the chips in a locket.
She folded the memories of his food the least, and it was always in a pocket on the chest’s lid, the second thing she saw after opening it, right after the letter that held her name and place.
Her limbs were finished in linseed oil, and flames were dangerous to her. But she knew that the tavern is best on Thursdays and Fridays, and that he likes the white bread from the bakery two junctions down from where the atelier was. And so after she says her good evenings to the seamstresses, she would go where the letter points her with the boxes and bowls he had carved, the dumplings he liked and the sausage he detested.
She would set the table and watch him eat, he would take apart and wax her joints.
He had learned that beeswax worked best for her wrist, and that paraffin was unsuitable to an atelier. That her grain had deepened in colour since the time that hand had untangled the shuttle.
Her linen face too — where he had caressed her most — remembered with pills, it feels soft under his thumb, and the second letter had black hair struck for grey
It was a quieter spring, when guests and patrons were few, that he had time to carve something for her. A palmtop recreation of the Sugar Plum Fairy, whom Daphne was enthralled by when they visited the capital. He had found a music box in a shop of curiosities that would spin a figurine set atop, and had thought that it would delight her.
He did not let her see the craft, and had to sneak in paint himself, a servant was bribed.
When he did bring it to her, she put it in a compartment in her chest and wrapped it in cushions, only to be taken out and admired on sparing occasions.
Penn died as mortals do.
Daphne mourned in the first letter she saw after opening the chest.
She dressed him very carefully, for the meeting with the priest. She slept next to him, and she slept very still.
The chest stayed in their bedroom for a while
In time, a new doll opened her eyes in the chest, around her were neatly bound volumes and wooden toys and a sketch of a woman smelling a Myrtle.
Which was odd, because the chest smelled more like hawthorn.
She pushed open the lid and saw the light, and stretched in the shape of an écarté.
She saw the first letter that you see after opening the chest, and read it.
My heart, let this chest be a blessing instead of a memory.
The chest appeared to be very old.
The room smelled of linseed oil and tree sap and a faint hint of mineral, the doll had a vitality not quite like the sewing machine on the desk.
She noticed that she had a warm orange dress on, one that fit her just right.
She looked out the window and saw the cobblestone path and the rough masonry and the funicular climbing in the distance.
When you have known the world, give yourself a name.
She had time.