Dollhouse: Curiosities, #1

By Hayden Thorne

A bright future stretches out before Arthur Summerfield when he and his sister, Jane, are whisked off to the continent by Jane's fiancé. Catching the attention of a wealthy traveler ushers the pair into an exciting world filled with new friendships, young love, and a darkly magical land of misty mountains and mysterious guardian wolves.

While Arthur settles down into his new life in the town of St. Jude, Jane and Matus move into a centuries-old converted tower house fifty miles away. One that welcomes its new residents after decades of emptiness.

And centuries of loneliness.

The new residents stir the silent walkers of the house, their fates nothing more than cryptic entries in the journals of a long-dead mistress. As the house awakens, Arthur also draws the attention of Bohemia's guardian wolves, summoned to the town by their ancestor's calls.

Past and present come together in a chilling montage of centuries-old tragedies, an orphan's brush with the occult, and a young man who suddenly finds himself the focus of supernatural forces. Alone, armed with nothing but his wits, Arthur must venture into the deepening shadows of a haunted tower house to save the lives of those he loves most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hayden Thorne
• Release date: Jan 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393872894

Hayden Thorne

I’ve lived most of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area though I wasn’t born there (or, indeed, the USA). I’m married with no kids and three cats. I started off as a writer of gay young adult fiction, specializing in contemporary fantasy, historical fantasy, and historical genres. My books ranged from a superhero fantasy series to reworked and original folktales to Victorian ghost fiction. I’ve since expanded to gay New Adult fiction, which reflects similar themes as my YA books and varies considerably in terms of romantic and sexual content. While I’ve published with a small press in the past, I now self-publish my books. Please visit my site for exclusive sales and publishing updates.

Book preview

A Note on Honorifics

While events in this books are set clearly in an Alternate Universe where magic and same-sex relationships are commonplace and accepted, a few historical details are incorporated into the plot. The use of honorifics by different characters when addressing each other is one of the predominant elements.

This book’s chosen time period places the Bohemian kingdom firmly under the rule of the Austrian Empire, and German was then the primary language spoken. The Czech language had been reduced to the language of the rural poor.

In the story, the use of honorifics highlights the characters’ national origins, hence the wild jumping from English to German to French to Spanish to Italian. Arthur and Jane, being English, will always refer to other people as Mr. or Mrs., the latter honorific applied to both married and single women as was the custom of the time.

Czech characters use German, and the French, naturally, use French. Alexej, who is the adopted younger son of the Sauveterre family, is Czech and so uses German in his addresses. It is a quirk of this new series, whether or not it’s necessary or even realistic.

Chapter 1

There were too many people crowding around the puppet-show, some of whom were children from the orphanage of St. Jerome clustered together under the watchful eye of their two chaperones. Dutifully they stood as a group, just a bit off-center because other children fought for their own spots, and they weren’t obligated to behave like civilized young ladies and gentlemen. In fact, encouragement came from all sides, with well-dressed adults calling out to their sons and daughters to stake their claim and refuse to give an inch.

So a good deal of pushing and shoving and pinching—followed by a few cries, wails, and furious whining—commenced for a handful of minutes. The traveling puppet-show, or at least the people behind that day’s entertainment, fought to be heard above the din in a vain effort at settling everyone down and keeping the peace.

Please, everyone, sit yourselves down! We can’t start the show unless you all behave!

A couple of people stepped out from behind the colorful makeshift stage to watch the proceedings with a mix of boredom and irritated restlessness. They’d seen this sort of mess dozens of times in the past in different cities all over England, and this was nothing new. All the same, it would do for the little well-dressed savages to calm down and let the rest of the audience enjoy the show.

Everyone’s attention was quite fixed on the quarrels and complaints getting flung in every direction that no one noticed one of the children under the nuns’ care managing to slip out of the restless group. The little one took full advantage of the nuns’ distraction as they tried to ensure their charges kept still and out of trouble.

This child—a boy of about five years, freshly scrubbed, dark hair neatly trimmed, and dressed in the dull and plain but clean uniform of the orphanage, found himself suddenly hovering along the edge of the group. Freedom wasn’t more than three feet away.

He realized none of the adults standing nearby appeared to care much about what happened to anyone else but their own children. An encouraging sign, to be sure, for him to creep away from his companions—all of whom apparently were just as distracted as everyone else by so much wild activity to notice one of their own attempting an escape. Little by little, practically inch by inch, he wedged himself between other children and then half-stumbled past others.

What luck! His peers were all too excited by the puppet-show to care. Their chaperones were too busy struggling to keep their little charges together while keeping a sharp and wary eye on the more catastrophic goings on around them. Movement everywhere surged and flowed, an endless stream of activity that ensured the world’s attention would be fixed elsewhere but the little boy. He’d reached the last line of children when the nuns finally ordered them all to sit down, though the confusion around them continued.

Somehow he managed to distance himself from the group without anyone along the perimeter of the entertainment area noticing his efforts. In another moment, he staggered to his feet, turned, and bolted past the milling adults.

Jane? he called out, large eyes growing even bigger as he scanned the endless sea of strangers and entertainers as the town square filled rapidly with people. Jane? Where are you?

There was another group of children from the same orphanage—an older group, one of whom was this little boy’s sister. She and her group were somewhere in the town square, their own pair of chaperones guiding them to spots more appropriate for youngsters their age.

Hey now! What are you doing, young man?

Are you lost, child?

Is anyone missing a little boy?

The boy didn’t care, for his attention was now well and fully fixed on his sister’s whereabouts, and he pushed and squeezed his way past swarms of people of every age. But every now and then he’d pause in his tracks, thumb caught in his mouth, and watch a family walk together as a tight and happy unit. Bright green eyes tracked the family’s movement, a familiar yearning tugging at his heart.

The parents appeared to dote on their children, and it didn’t matter how much money they seemed to have. There were families everywhere in rich but sedate clothes, others in rougher and more threadbare ones. A good many more fell somewhere in between. But the same observation could be made of them, however, and that was the clear joy of being together, of being surrounded and loved by kin.

The boy watched those laughing little groups flit past him like dancing fairies that were real to a very specific sort of world—just not his. Never his. They were fanciful images conjured by an overactive imagination. They were images that appeared as solid as anything but would surely vanish in a gentle puff if one were to attempt to touch them in desperate hope for something they represented.

The little boy could never put these impressions into such big, complex words, for he was far too young—but certainly not young enough to be spared the acute sting in his heart. He pulled his thumb out of his mouth and rubbed his chest distractedly.

Jane? Jane?

The town square’s wild and colorful mix of entertainers spilled over to some of the smaller side streets, giving those quieter and less frequented places much to celebrate for a change. Amid dingy brown and gray stone walls and dirty windows, music and laughter and movement blessed the area with life. The little boy saw jugglers, musicians either alone, in pairs, or in small groups. Puppeteers manipulated beautifully intricate marionettes and making them dance and caper about to the great delight of their audience.

A raggedly dressed musician playing an extremely lively tune with her fiddle caught the child’s attention for a bit. He stood shyly before her, staring in wide-eyed wonder as she played and stamped her foot in time, her gap-toothed grin a huge, beautiful one for her dazzled audience. A battered old carpetbag sat open before her, and there people flung coins while complimenting and thanking her. And with each show of generosity, she inclined her head in the person’s direction and blew them a kiss.

Ah, you’re a pretty one, ain’t you? she called out to the boy as he stood before her, his thumb stuck in his mouth again. What’s your name, dearie?

Arthur.

Mine’s Olive.

Arthur remembered his manners and quickly removed his thumb from his mouth and wiped it against his trousers. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Olive.

Just Arthur?

Um—Arthur Summerfield, miss. That’s my full name.

Olive laughed and directed her playing to him. Here’s one for you, pretty little Arthur Summerfield. I hope you enjoy it.

Without pausing, Olive changed direction judging from the way the song shifted, the previous notes no longer echoed in jubilant repetition. A new set of notes now came to life, and Olive kept her attention divided between her music and her bug-eyed audience. Now and then she’d stop her foot-stomping and dance around Arthur to show everyone else exactly who it was she now honored with her magic. And all that without a break from playing her fiddle, too.

Arthur marveled at the song though he knew absolutely nothing about it, its exuberance adding fuel to the remarkable fact that the piece was meant for him. Did Olive write the song herself? How did she know what Arthur liked? There was hardly any music played at the orphanage, its existence limited to playtime or chapel. All the same, Arthur couldn’t help but stand and gape, his little world confined to Olive and her astonishing skill at playing music and even dancing around him while doing so.

Olive suddenly paused in her dancing without stopping her music, dropping to one knee in order to look deep into Arthur’s ever-widening eyes. She grinned and said, This song is a protection and blessing spell, little Arthur, to keep your spirit, your heart, and your body safe from harm. It’s St. Cecilia’s will and Apollo’s power working together for you. Can you feel it?

Arthur shook his head. No, miss. What does it feel like?

Olive laughed, beckoned him closer, and kissed his forehead before springing nimbly to her feet without a break from her performance. She continued her music and her dance, still circling Arthur and encouraging others to clap and cheer her on, for music and immortal gods’ protection and blessing couldn’t be sanctified without the collective laughter and joy of the world—even if it only involved a handful of strangers.

The magical spell ended with the song. A trio of youngsters stepped forward to beg Olive to play something they could dance to, for everyone so adored a spontaneous dance in the middle of a glorious summer day like that day. Scattered applause drowned out her response as she laughed and chatted with the three, and her attention was now firmly elsewhere.

Arthur, crowded out, quietly withdrew and resumed his search for his sister. And as he wove through the endlessly surging mass of people, a chilly awareness of his surroundings’ sameness settled around his little shoulders. It seemed as though he’d walk several feet one way, only to find himself gazing around him and wondering if he’d just wandered in a circle. The crowd and the entertainers looked no differently from one another no matter where he turned.

He’d absolutely no idea where he was now. Neither did he know which direction to take in order to head back to the traveling puppet-show. And it was then, right then, when the idea of being lost and abandoned by his companions began to creep into his mind, casting icy shadows on the promise and wonder of the day.

He stumbled past more families, a couple of times finding himself shoved by taller and older children who sneered at him and called him a stupid little cur. He’d even had the misfortune of falling against another little boy after tripping over something, for which he was rewarded with a small fist tearing at his hair. Arthur cried out in pain, struggled to free himself, and was shoved away, his scalp throbbing.

Jane! Jane! Where are you? Jane!

The scene blurred when tears filled his eyes as he stumbled around half-blindly while rubbing his head.

Jane, don’t leave me!

Who’s Jane, little one?

A quiet voice somehow managed to make itself heard in the confusion of the busy square, and Arthur turned around to search for it. There was something comforting about the voice, a soothing familiarity that softened the edges of Arthur’s growing panic and fear. He blinked away the tears as he looked for it source, his confusion freezing him in place.

Over here, young man. Just ahead of you. Can you see me?

It was a man’s voice—the lullaby-like quality of its timbre easily drawing the child in, the grandfatherly kindness acting as a beacon to a frightened orphan. The voice also had about it a very peculiar accent, an unusual pull of certain vowels that was definitely not English in nature.

I can’t see you, Arthur replied, trembling and scrubbing his eyes. I can’t find Jane. I think I’m lost.

Very well, very well. Move closer. Just follow my voice, child. I need to get you out of the crowd and keep you safe. Your friends will find you soon enough. I promise.

So Arthur followed the voice, sniffling and crying as reminders of the nuns leaving him behind threatened to undo him right then and there. Around him the square seemed to melt into a hazy distance, the noise and activity receding enough to allow his brain to keep its focus on the kindly voice luring him away from the crowd.

He eventually found himself standing in the opening of a short alley. None of the entertainers had managed to claim a spot there, very likely because of the narrowness of the cobblestoned path that was flanked by what appeared to be four little shops. Unlike the other smaller alleys he’d walked past, this one looked quite forlorn and abandoned. The nearest shops had nothing inside, their windows showing emptiness and darkness within, their doors looking as though they hadn’t been opened in years.

Arthur fought the urge to shrink back and stay away from the gray and lonely old shops, but the voice kept its hold on him, the lure of comfort and kindness too strong to ignore.

Where are you? Arthur called meekly, his thumb finding its way back between his lips. I don’t see you anywhere.

Here, little one.

The door to the very last shop on the right side creaked open, inching outward without help from a human hand.

There are toys over here, child. Would you like to see? You’re welcome to wait out the time in here and rest up. That should be enough for the sisters to come looking for you. Oh, I’m sure you’ll be missed. St. Jerome is quite thorough when it comes to ensuring their children’s safety. Trust me, your absence will be noticed. The alarm will be raised, and people will come looking for you.

Arthur nodded and walked forward, relief flowing through him as he listened to the voice.

At length he found himself standing before the tiny shop. The arched door stood open, though no one was inside to welcome him. The large window to the right of the door was shaped quite oddly, with no straight lines or hard angles to be had—just shallowly sweeping curves showing no beginning or end. The glass on both the door and the window was a touch dirty, barely allowing outside light to enter what seemed to be a dark interior.

Arthur hesitated before the shop, his wide-eyed glance moving from door to window and back again.

You don’t have to come in. Not yet. Do you see what’s on the window, though?

He turned his baffled gaze to the window and saw an elaborate dollhouse standing there, facing the alley. He let out a little gasp of wonder and hurried to the window and stared at the dollhouse, managing to see it well enough despite the dullness of the glass. It was a large one, indeed, the compartments within clearly indicating rooms. All those rooms were richly decorated with dark patterned paper, little furniture painted to look like dark wood, and all sorts of other items normally contained in a house.

There were dolls inside—three of them. But they were all unfinished, with porcelain heads and cloth bodies. No clothes, no hair, no painted faces. They were all separated from each other, too, with one posed in a room on the ground floor while the other two were tucked away in rooms on the floor above, both chambers situated at opposite ends of the dollhouse.

Arthur wrinkled his nose as he regarded them through the window. They looked very strange, he thought. The dolls were too unfinished and plain compared to the sumptuously decorated rooms they were housed in. The voice didn’t disturb his moment, staying silent for a bit as though waiting for Arthur to make sense of what he was looking at.

Are the dolls a family? he asked.

Indeed, they are. Would you like them to be?

Arthur hesitated and then nodded. They should be, I think. And they love their house.

Yes, they do. And the house loves them back. Would you like to live in a house that hates you?

Um—no, sir. But houses aren’t alive.

The voice merely let out a quiet sound that Arthur couldn’t quite read, but then again, his thoughts were firmly fixed elsewhere as he continued to gawp at the impressively designed dollhouse.

I wish Jane could see this, he said. I wish she were here.

Wishes, the voice cooed. How I dearly love wishes.

So did Arthur, but he knew they were always so difficult to fulfill—at least to a boy like him. A skinny little orphan in dull clothes. They were more like pretty but distant dreams, really, and that sting in his heart made itself felt again.

Chapter 2

So what’s your dearest wish, child?

Arthur thought of those colorful, happy families enjoying their time in the town square. Then he thought of Jane and wondered where she could be, the mere possibility of being abandoned by his sister tearing a harsh sob from his chest. Eyes blurred by more tears, he let out a low, keening wail before the shop window.

I want a real family, he stuttered before dissolving into another fresh wave of crying.

The kind voice didn’t interrupt once and fell silent again, allowing Arthur to unburden himself loudly, not at all caring if anyone would hear him. He scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles and wiped his nose with the little handkerchief that had always been a part of the orphanage’s uniform.

You wish for a family, then?

I wish I had a real family.

I can picture you and your sister in this dollhouse. What do you think?

Arthur nodded weakly. I like the dollhouse. It’s very pretty.

Would you like to live in a house like this?

Yes, sir.

With a mama and a papa? Or perhaps your sister and her husband someday?

Arthur’s tears spilled again as that awful yearning tore at his heart. He nodded in answer, wondering if something as remarkable as a parent—even a single parent would be perfect—was in his future somehow.

Then let us hope the saints hear your wish, and the faces on these dolls become yours and your family’s someday. The voice paused. And that these dolls become an inextricable part of the house that contains them. What do you think, child?

What do I think about what, sir?

About you and your family living in such a dollhouse? Being a permanent part of it?

People can’t live in a dollhouse, Arthur stammered, his words halting as he struggled to calm down. They’re too big for it.

The voice suddenly laughed, a gentle wave that soothed and helped drive away the tears. Indeed, you’re correct. A human family would be too big for a dollhouse, but there are houses everywhere that can be thought of as giant dollhouses in a way. And a lovely family like yours, which you’ll be blessed with someday, I’m sure, would look quite perfect in such a pretty structure. In fact, one might say such houses choose their owners, and those owners are meant to be a permanent part of those houses.

Arthur felt a sudden wave of warmth and comfort wash over him, swaddling him with hope and the tentative stirrings of joy. Calm settled in his chest as well. He took a step closer to the shop window for a better look at the dollhouse as stuttering hiccups wracked his body. He tried to picture himself as one of the dolls, with Jane as the other and her future husband being the third. Oh, his sister would most certainly love living in such a place!

Would you like to see the rest of the shop, little Arthur?

Sniffling and smiling, Arthur nodded. Yes, please, he replied, again recalling his manners. May I come in, sir?

Of course, child. Of course. I’ve quite a collection going, though only a few are for sale—those that I’ve managed to complete, I mean. Those curiosities are for sale to a very select customer.

Why?

Because they’re very dear, you see. Very costly. And they don’t come by so easily or everyday. I’m very, very particular with my collectibles.

Arthur blinked, not at all understanding a single word, for they sounded too big, too important, and too adult for someone his age. He hurried to the door and peered inside, hesitating on the threshold.

The shop’s interior was surprisingly tiny, making Arthur think of the cluttered little parlor in St. Jerome where visitors spent some time before speaking with Fr. Nicholas, the head of the orphanage. Shelves filled with dolls, puppets, miscellaneous framed portraits in very small sizes. Intricately decorated boxes lined every wall. Elsewhere were scattered four overly large, faded, cushioned chairs, all standing with no clear plan, while in the middle of the shop stood an old table of polished dark wood. On those chairs sat a doll or two, the table displaying an unfinished doll and a roughly painted oval portrait—also unfinished—already set in an elaborate frame.

A few dolls lay scattered on the floor, though those were mostly kept out of the way. Rather than lie in the middle of the floor, they either sat or stood against a chair leg or leaned against the bottommost shelf.

Arthur stepped inside, blinking. The shop was a world of mystery and wonder, with much of its interior cast in shadows, for outdoor light that barely managed to filter through the dirt-dulled window could only touch areas nearest to it. His footsteps barely broke through the silence when he wandered inside, mouth hanging open as he gaze at all the strange wonders around him. The air smelled like old wood and old paper, scents familiar to him as something he’d daily experience in the ancient rooms of the orphanage.

These are my curiosities, young Arthur, the voice said, sounding a little pleased at the look of awe on Arthur’s face. These are my collection. What do you think?

Some aren’t done, Arthur said, pointing at a nearby shelf containing a few unfinished items tucked among the beautifully decorated selections. Why aren’t they done?

Oh, that’s because it takes time for me to find the right tools and the right muse to complete any of them.

Arthur’s thumb went back into his mouth. What’s a muse?

A muse? Well—it’s someone who inspires me with an idea for something.

Oh. Like me, you mean?

The voice laughed softly, kindly. Yes, child, just like you.

His earlier shyness and self-consciousness now gone, Arthur pointed at the small table standing by the window, displaying the dollhouse for the rest of the world to see.

I’m your muse for that? he asked, breathless.

Indeed, you are.

Arthur hurried over to the dollhouse and observed it closely, taking care to keep his hands off the magnificent structure. He practically bounced on his toes as he fought his excitement and tried to appear as well-mannered as a boy his age could be.

Can I see it when it’s finished?

My dear, you’ll be very much a part of it once it’s done.

Arthur frowned, sticking his lower lip out as he considered what he heard. I’m a boy, not a doll. I’ll never fit that.

Well—would you like to see your dearest wish granted?

Yes, sir. I want to have a mama and a papa someday. Arthur paused, considering. Or maybe Jane will get married, and then she and her husband can be my mama and papa or something like that. I think sisters who’re married can also be like mamas to their brothers, right?

The voice chuckled softly. One or two parents, two genders or one, we’ll make sure your wish comes true, so you’ll have a happily-ever-after, won’t we? That’s the least you deserve, little one. Then my dollhouse will be complete, and you and your family will be the talk of the rest of the world.

All right. Thank you kindly. Another wave of relief, hope, and joy washed over Arthur. He abandoned the dollhouse in order to explore the rest of the shop.

The air wasn’t stuffy, but it smelled like old things—more than just old wood and old paper, that is, once Arthur bent all thought to his immediate surroundings and not the voice and the dollhouse. At least the door stayed open, allowing fresh air from outside to come in. Arthur stopped before one of the old-looking padded chairs and gazed in wonder at the doll and the marionette that were placed on the faded seat. The doll was a girl doll with red curls pinned back from its pale, delicate-looking face. It was dressed differently from the girls Arthur had seen outside the orphanage, with the skirts appearing to begin just under the chest. He thought it strange, but perhaps it was just a special dress for a special doll.

Why is that doll dressed different from the other girls out there, sir? he asked, pointing at it.

Because it was made years ago, the voice replied. Several years ago, when people dressed differently from the kind of fashion you’re familiar with.

The marionette sat in a crumpled heap beside the red-haired doll. While made of weathered wood and discolored cloth, it was no less intricately made. To Arthur’s astonishment, the marionette was a terrifying-looking thing, a ghoulish creature that didn’t at all look human, its shrunken features making Arthur think of something from a nightmare. It was dressed in nothing but a shroud of faded and soiled cloth that must have been white a long time ago.

That, my dear, is Viduus, the voice said.

Why does it look like that?

Ah, it’s because it represents a minor god of the underworld.

Arthur frowned. Oh. It doesn’t look proper, sitting next to something pretty. He pointed at the red-haired doll again.

"But death goes hand-in-hand with life. Shadows and