The Dollmaker's Masterpiece

The forest shrouded mountainside was spread out before her, the city below that like a picture. With her sharp eyes, she could easily pick out the palace, the court, the coliseum. She could see vaguely the bustle of the market, and the laborers toiling outside the city in the quarries. To the north, she could barely see the fields of crops. To the south, the vineyards that supplied Caesar’s cellars were a green and brown smudge. She knew to the east was the sea, only visible from the highest points in the city.

Her legs dangled over the rock-face, and she bit into the apple she had put inside her tunic just for this moment. A breeze blew, and her hair escaped the bun. She carefully tucked it back in, wanting nothing to impair her view.

“Viola.”

She glanced back to see a thick-bodied black man standing just above her on the rocky outcrop. He was tall, and muscled. A tattoo was on his bare shoulder, a cross. He never blinked, and stood unnaturally still. Viola sighed, and stood, brushing off the back of her crimson tunic and gold leggings. “What is it, Yannis?”

“She waits for you.”

With that, he turned, and with speed that only Viola’s eyes could track, went up the mountain. She focused on the dark spot on the back of his neck. Without further ado, she followed quickly catching up, then out-stripping him. There was more than one reason Viola was the masterpiece. She was well ahead of the larger Doll when she reached the house.

It was a simple thing, set against a cliff in the mountain. It was a single story, almost like one of those cottages Viola read about in fairy tales- made from mud bricks, with few small windows and a thatched roof. It looked fragile and small, but if there was only one thing you needed to know about the Dollmaker, it was that appearances aren’t always as they seem. Viola opened the faded red door without ceremony, and glanced for the person inside.

She stood beside the wooden work table that was under the window on her left. A body lay on the table, face-down so that Viola couldn’t tell who it was. A golden key stuck out from the hole in the olive-skinned neck. The Dollmaker stood above the body, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a short thing, with wispy blonde hair that was slowly turning gray, and wrinkles stretching from the corners of her eyes. All illusions of mortality, of course; the Dollmaker was as immune to age as her creations. Brown eyes glanced at the girl standing in the entrance.

“Where’s Yannis?”

“You know I’m faster.”

The Dollmaker turned the key in the Doll’s neck, and took off her apron as it rose, and stood. She was a tall, olive-skinned girl, with black hair that curled toward her face. She looked to Viola, and bowed, like a servant to its mistress. Then she made her leave. Viola watched as she went outside. “What was wrong with Thalia?”

“A ripped Achilles Tendon. Her’s has always been more susceptible to tearing.” The Dollmaker left the work area, sitting in one of the armchairs around the fireplace at the right end of the house. Viola followed, sitting in the other armchair. The Dollmaker smiled at her masterpiece. “Have you made any progress?”

Viola took a deep breathe, and then let it out in a rush. “No. He is still mourning the loss of the mutant. I have watched many girls vie for his attention, none getting more than formal replies. He attends the Coliseum games every week. I think he interferes on her behalf too.”

The Dollmaker steepled her fingers together, eyes focused on Viola. “He needs something to distract him.”

“Responsibility can do that.” Viola replied, her own hands on her crossed legs. The Dollmaker surveyed her creation. Viola had a way of becoming unnatural, more like a Doll, when she was plotting. That’s why she tended to keep away from court, plan in the morning. The Dollmaker nodded. “Responsibility…like running an empire.”

Viola looked up, eyebrows up as the Dollmaker smiled a thin smile. “Assassinate Caesar Scorpio, and Draco will forget that wrench in the chaos afterwards.”

And Viola nodded.