Page 96 of Porcelain Grave

"What's the catch?" I snap. "There's always a catch."

"The anchor," the coven responds. "They will need the ashes of their own bodies. The remains must stay in the vessels to maintain the bond. Without the ash, the tether snaps, and they vanish into the void."

I look back at my sisters. They look so small, so broken, and so desperately lonely. The thought of them drifting away into some grey afterlife, alone and scarred, is more than I can bear. I can't lose them again. Not when I finally got them back.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and nod firmly.

"Fine. Do it," I say, my voice regaining its strength. "I'll do it. I'll make them new porcelain dolls—the most beautiful ones in the world. That look like you, like the one we made when we were together. I'll craft them myself. Just... don't let them go.”

I’m hunched over the workbench in the back of the shop, the air thick with the smell of turpentine, porcelain slip, and the faint, lingering scent of the occult shit we pulled in the attic. My fingers are stained with paint and clay, shaking just a tiny bit, but I don't stop. I can't fucking stop.

I’m crafting two new dolls. Not just any dolls—these are vessels. They have to be perfect. They have to be exactly like the one I keep at Rhys’s place, the one that looks like a mirror image of us.

I start with the porcelain, molding the heads with a precision that borders on obsession. I smooth out the cheeks, carving the delicate line of the jaw and the small, pouty lips of a twelve-year-old. Every curve of the face is a memory I’ve had to dig out of the darkest corners of my mind. I’m not just making toys; I’m building a home for Cordelia and Rosalind.

"You're doing brilliant, love," Rhys’s voice rumbles behind me.

I don't even have to look to know he's there. He’s a constant, heavy presence at my shoulder, his warmth radiating through my clothes. He hasn't left my side for a fucking second. He’s like a shadow, possessive and grounding, his eyes probably tracking every movement of my hands with that intense, psychotic devotion of his. Knowing he's watching makes me more focused, more desperate to get this right.

I move on to the hair, meticulously rooting strands of deepest black silk into the porcelain scalps. I brush it carefully, making sure it falls just right—long, dark, and haunting. Then comes the hardest part: the eyes.

I pick up the ice-blue glass spheres. They’re cold and piercing, exactly the shade of my own. As I set them into the sockets, I feel a shiver run down my spine. For a split second, it feels like the dolls are looking back at me, waiting. I blink, and the feeling vanishes, but the intensity remains.

"Almost there, Ophelia," Rhys whispers, his hand coming up to rest on the small of my back, his thumb rubbing a slow, possessive circle through the fabric of my shirt.

I ignore the heat of his touch for a moment, focusing on the fine details. I paint the tiny fingernails, the soft flush of the cheeks, and the delicate lines of their small hands. I’m careful—fucking surgical—with every stroke of the brush. I can't mess this up. If the vessel isn't right, if the intent isn't pure, I might lose them again, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.

The process is grueling. My back aches, and my eyes are stinging from the strain, but I refuse to take a break. I work through the night, the only sound in the shop being the ticking of the old clocks and the steady rhythm of Rhys’s breathing behind me.

Finally, I step back.

There they are. Two porcelain girls with ink-black hair and frozen, ice-blue stares. They look identical to me, yet distinct enough to be them. They look innocent, untouched by the butcher's knife and the blood that defined their end.

I look at them and feel a surge of fierce, protective love mixed with a dark, twisted satisfaction. They aren't going to be rotting in the ground or glitching in a dusty attic. They’re going to be here, with me.

"They're perfect," Rhys murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make me gasp. "Just like you, my little doll."

I lean back into him, staring at the empty eyes of my sisters. "Now we just need the ashes," I whisper, my voice raspy. "Now we bring them home.”

The air in the shop is thick, tasting of ozone and old dust. The coven is gathered around the workbench, their faces obscured by veils, looking like a bunch of fucking vultures waiting for a carcass. In the center of the circle sit the two porcelain dolls I’ve spent days obsessing over, their ice-blue eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Beside them are the two urns—heavy, cold things holding everything that’s left of Cordelia and Rosalind.

"Begin," the lead witch rasps, her voice sounding like gravel grinding together.

The ritual starts with a low, rhythmic chanting that vibrates in my fucking teeth. They light black candles that bleed thick, acrid smoke, swirling around us in patterns that don't make a lick of sense. I’m standing there, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, Rhys’s hand a heavy, grounding weight on my shoulder. He’s not scared; he’s fascinated. I can feel the predatory hum of his energy, his obsession fueling the air around us.

One of the witches steps forward, her movements jerky and unnatural. She unscrews the lid of the first urn. The ashes are a pale, ghostly grey. With a silver funnel and a steady hand, she begins to pour the remains of Cordelia into the hollow cavity of the first doll’s chest.

Sshhh.

The sound of the ashes sliding into the porcelain is the only thing I can hear over the chanting. It feels like I’m watching a reverse burial. Instead of putting them in the dirt to rot, we’re stuffing them into art. We're giving them a shell.

Then comes Rosalind. The second urn is opened, and the same process repeats. The ashes fill the second doll, filling the void where a heart should be. As the last of the grey dust disappears into the porcelain, the chanting reaches a fucking crescendo, a wall of sound that feels like it's going to burst my eardrums.

"Bind the spirit to the clay! Bind the blood to the bone! Wake from the silence!"

Suddenly, a violent gust of wind rips through the closed shop, knocking over a few tins of paint and sending papers flying. I look up and see them—the ghosts of my sisters. They’re glitching, their forms flickering like a broken film strip, covered in the horrific wounds the butcher’s knife left behind. They look terrified, then confused, then... peaceful.

And then, in a blink, they’re gone.