The rain could cover Helena with Briar's tears, but it would not conceal her cries.

"Give me momma and Isabella back!" She yelled at the ground all the while, pleading to the heavens—it did not matter if she had to make a deal with the Devil, or witness a miracle from God, so long as she had her mother and sister back.

It had been a time before twilight and dawn. When darkness slowly scatters, like a deer at the sound of footsteps. The air had been thick with a dense grey fog that clung to the road like velcro. The vapor of death had arrived that morning. They were only visiting Glenelg, the next town away. Helena had been sick with pneumonia. You two go on ahead, The Doctor had said. I will stay here and keep an eye on her.

That was the last time Helena would see them. If she had known, she would have made sure to hug her mother a little longer, and tug her sister’s ear a little firmer that day.

A terrible accident, the adults had whispered. Fog so bad they couldn't see the hood of the car they were driving. Right over the edge of a cliff. No more than two hours after they had left.

Helena felt sick all over again. She gripped the earth, packed against the tombstone she had fallen before.

Here lies Valeria Briar. Mother. Wife. A woman devoted to her family, and a restless purveyor of knowledge. 1832-1874.

What was the point in all this? They had never been able to recover the bodies. 6 feet below this ground was a mere casket filled with air, a wedding ring, a family picture, and her favorite dress. A couple of keepsakes.

A shadow covered the sky, and the rain had stopped. She looked upward. An umbrella.

"Now you stop all this and stand up, Miss Helena."

Helena lifted herself up and turned around.

There stood Morgana, a face like a tombstone. She might as well have been dead too, her petrified expression less of fear and more a statue of sobriety. Why wasn't she crying? Wasn't she sad too?

"Dust your skirt, and stand up straight—look around," she ordered. "You can crouch and crawl and curse all you want behind closed door. But not here. Now, dry your face."

"Yes, ma'am."

Around her, a black and grey crowd stood like strangers, on the fringe of a most important and sacred moment. They were like onlookers afraid to join, lest they involve themselves in a ritual that was never theirs to complete, a dance that was never theirs to sway to. This was the dance of death. The dance for the mourning and grieving. Many there could say they knew Valeria and Isabella, but who had truly known them? Known them enough to shed tears the way Helena had?

Helena looked toward her father, the Doctor. He was as a stranger too. Hiding in the crowds, beside the priest. She could tell. He wanted to be part of the background. Fade away, perhaps into nothingness. Helena wanted to, too. But she didn't. She wouldn't.

How would Momma and Isabella feel if she had?

Doesn't he care about them? She wondered. It feels as if I am the only who cares. All the adults' faces were the same. Tight locked, long expression, with chins carefully tucked in and faces looking down, that seemed more ashamed than sad. She hated it. She hated them.

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But what could she do? Yell and scream, and kick their shins? Walk right up to her father, and shake him out of a stupor? Inquire why she felt like the crazy one when they were ones acting crazy?

She looked at her sister's tombstone.

Here lies Isabella Briar. A daughter with a precocious spirit and an exemplary sister. 1860-1874.

She could not contain her tears.

She would cry for all of them, then.

It’s not as if adults cried, anyway.

Three years passed.

Three years without her father.

He had disappeared, retreating into the Rosewoods. No one went after him.

Leave him be, they said, and let the man mourn. When time is right, he will emerge fully healed.

But what of Helena? Did anyone care where she should run to? If she should run?

She was 12 now and had slowly begun to take on some of the responsibilities of the estate herself, under the tutelage of her mother's younger sister, Lady Dalia. She had resigned to the fact that her father was never coming back and that he had either killed himself (which was the running rumor at the time) or that he had run away.

So then you can imagine her surprise, when he appeared to her one day as if he had never left.

If she were anything less than a filial daughter, she would have shooed him out. If she were anything less than lonely, she would have demanded he leave forever.

And she was anything less than prideful she would have told him how much he had hurt her.

"I cannot make up for my past, Helena, but I can provide you a better future," he promised.

Perhaps this was his attempt at an apology.

"You may think I spent three years hiding. But I knew, the moment I saw your face the day of their funeral, I would never be enough for what you needed, Helena. So, I created you something that will."

What she wanted to say was that he had never asked what she needed. What she found herself agreeing to was to follow him through the Old Woods in the Rosewood forest of the Briar estate.

They walked in quietude, the sounds of the forest courteous enough to ensure they were not in complete silence, the caw-caw of the ravens like an ominous cry — were they telling her to turn back, or continue forward?

Helena looked at her father, a looming man with a figure like a long, stretched shadow. Beneath thick brows were a pair of elongated, slim eyes with two brown orbs that shined intensely. She found herself fearful as she noted the severity of his features. She had not considered what 3 years in the Rosewood might have done to him.

They came to a small house that was as grey as the trees it stood amidst. Despite the land and trees surrounding it having been cleared, it did not strike Helena as the type of place one would want to live in. In fact, she did not think it was the type of place that wanted to be a home. Thick vines blanketed and squeezed the windows, carpeted the front porch like an unwelcome mat, and wrapped around its exterior aggressively. As if to proudly — and dangerously — assert its belonging to the forest. A tall and narrow window beneath the front porch was tinted, making it impossible to see through despite the lack of covering or curtains. The gabled roof was slanted at such a severe, dramatic angle, Helena thought it would slide off. This was not a house of three years. No, this was a house of maybe 300 years. A house with history that made Helena wonder if perhaps her father had been gone for much longer than she had counted.

Before the door of the house, the Doctor stopped. He pulled a chain from around his neck at which a small, golden key dangled at its end. In a weathered brown palm, he offered it to Helena.

"I hereby transfer ownership of The Dollhouse to you, Helena Elizabeth Briar." The key glowed briefly in accordance.

"The Dollhouse?"

"Yes. My creation. Perhaps one of the greatest known to man. For you Helena."

Helena knew her father was one of the most gifted alchemists in all of Culorn. Men and women from all around the country would come to him, with their ailments, both lesser and greater. Amongst even his most talented colleagues, he was likened to a modern day miracle worker — helping the lame to walk, the dumb to speak, and the blind to see.

But he was also incredibly proud. He could be as arrogant about his works as he was passionate. His confidence quite often devolved into ego that would have blinded him long ago, if not for ego's greatest enemy—love. For it was love for all that he did, that kept him focused, grounded and continually looking outward, rather than in.

As Helena looked into her father's eyes, she wondered if it was ego or love speaking, and decided to take a chance.

Upon unlocking the door, she pushed forward, and entered The Dollhouse...